


Framed by design

by id_ten_it



Category: Inspector Alleyn Mysteries - Ngaio Marsh, Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Australian artists, Descriptions of famous artworks, Gen, references to World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:28:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26170423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/id_ten_it/pseuds/id_ten_it
Summary: Miss Agatha Troy is asked to be the guest of honour at the Melbourne Society of Women Painters and Sculptors-affiliated Melbourne Women's Art Exhibition. Rory tags along because he is actually quite a dutiful husband (and loves travel), which is lucky because Troy runs bang-smack into a murderer.Conveniently, all-round feminist Miss Fisher also happens to be involved, and while the two Detective Inspectors are busy chatting and eating Anzac Bikkies, the women get down to work. Or at least that's how Miss Fisher tells the story!(If you know only one half of this cross over don't worry, I have written it assuming the reader doesn't have an in-depth knowledge of fandom without losing character. Jump in and take a look!)
Relationships: Hugh Collins/Dorothy "Dot" Williams, Phryne Fisher/Jack Robinson, Roderick Alleyn/Agatha Troy
Comments: 8
Kudos: 24





	1. Setting the scene

**Author's Note:**

> A note on chronology: I have set this in late 1920s Melbourne, which means pushing Troy and Alleyn together a little earlier than the books require but this seems in keeping with the grand tradition of famous detectives never really aging.

For once in her life, Miss Fisher trotted after Dot. Wednesday afternoon was the weekly City South Police sports afternoon, and this week she knew Jack had little enough on his plate to keep him away. He cut a fine figure in his shorts. Hugh, having an excellent boss, was sent off to join in most weeks, but Dot still tried to get down as often as she could. It helped that her boss understood the enticement of a well-formed, under-dressed, man.

The women settled themselves against the fence, Dot placing the large marketing hamper at her feet and smiling warmly at Mrs Mills who was the next fence post down. “How are the twins, Mrs Mills?” Constable Mills was one shift before Hugh – morning when he was afternoons, nights when he was mornings – so the women had more than a nodding acquaintance. As they yacked on about babies and husbands, Miss Fisher’s keen eyes were tracking more interesting things. She hoped all that leaping about didn’t tire Jack out too much; she had functions the next two nights so wouldn’t be able to put him off.

In the end it was three rather rumpled, sweaty, men who trotted over to the women ranged along the fence. Constable Mills vaulted the post neatly, to be swarmed by his twins and offered water by his wife. Jack lounged, as he always did, gravely accepting the second-best thermos of Dot’s special sports-day drink and then following Miss Fisher to the shade of a nearby gum to give the new couple some privacy. Judging from Dot’s gaze constantly straying to Hugh’s braced arm and defined bicep, there wasn’t a lot of conversation happening. Still, it didn’t hurt to have some time alone.

“Dinner tonight?” Miss Fisher laughed at Jack’s eyes nearly overtaken with a gluttonous gleam.  
“Dinner tonight. But I’m out Thursday and Friday so you’ll need to fend for yourself.”  
“Or sweet-talk Mr Butler.” Really, a man as normally well-put-together as Jack shouldn’t look so devilishly enticing with curls freely falling across his broad forehead. It was all Miss Fisher could do to stay standing perfectly still. “I don’t think he’d need that much convincing. He does love an appreciative audience.”  
“I aim to please” Jack grinned, “but my kitchen is probably overrun with dusty left overs from the last time you left me to fend for myself, so maybe the poor man can even have a night off.”  
“Do you know I have no idea what Mr Butler does in his time off? I imagine it’s something quite nefarious.”  
“Oh undoubtedly. He probably runs the local forgery ring.”  
“It’s more likely he’s the head of an international smuggling racket.”  
“I wouldn’t be surprised if he were controlling the anarchists, the mafia, and the Marxists. I’ve never met a man more capable.” Jack let his smile turn to laughter when Phryne’s did, enjoying the intimate moment. “Still” he added mournfully, “I don’t imagine he’d ever tell me so I’ll have to leave the sleuthing to you.” Handing back the thermos and pushing his curls back impatiently, he smiled and chastely touched her hand. “I’ll see you at seven. Don’t find a dead body before then, I’m hungry!”  
“You know perfectly well that _they_ find _me_.” Phryne was still smiling as Jack followed Constable Mills’ example, executing a tidy standing jump, and strode off to his car. “C’mon Hugh, Dot, let’s go home. Are you eating with us or in the cottage?”  
“The cottage thanks, Miss. Hugh’s Uncle killed some late sheep so we have lamb shanks that need eating.”  
“I know they’re not the fashion, but I do say you can’t go past good fresh meat on a bone.” As Dot looked ready to invite her friend over for dinner – and never mind there were only two shanks – Miss Fisher smiled and jumped into the car. “Don’t be silly Dot. I dare say Mr Butler has prepared something palatable.” All in all, it was quite the cheerful drive home, and judging from the brisk way Hugh slid round to open his wife’s door it would be some time before the lamb was quite put on to cook.

Phryne smiled to herself on her own way inside, calling out to Mr Butler and strolling through to the spacious study to go over the final plans for the exhibition that was to open on Friday. Really, there were so many well-known artists, it would be quite the occasion. Luckily paintings were one of Jack’s pleasures (the same could not be said for moving pictures sadly, or singing ones!), so she was guaranteed at least one night of enjoying him all dressed up to impress. He did cut a fine figure.

***

“And after all that it’s the perfect day to arrive” Agatha Troy remarked to her husband, as they stood on the deck of _SS Otarama_ and watched Melbourne emerge out of the silvery dawn light.  
“I imagine some days this place is nearly blown inside-out” Alleyn agreed.

They stood in companionable silence, braced against the rail as more passengers jostled their way to the side of the ship. “Alright?” Alleyn asked, offering Troy his arm and frowning at the back of a boisterous youth. “I’m alright” she grumbled, running a hand through her short locks and jamming her hat into her capacious pocket.  
“You’d better let me hold that” her husband remarked mildly, “I know you’ll make a good impression with these ladies but it wouldn’t hurt to have an uncrumpled hat.”  
“Felt doesn’t crumple” Troy murmured, but handed the hat over absently. Alleyn, who knew his wife quite well and respected her work quite apart from that, let her focus on the gradual creep of colour across the landscape, not speaking again until he knew by the lack of tension in her body that she’d seen what she needed to see.

“If they’re the sort of silly women who judge me on my hat I imagine we’ll have a frightful time.”  
“I imagine we will if that’s the case” Alleyn smiled gently, “it’s just as likely there’ll be reporters as Mrs Dimmock you know.”  
“Reporters? Oh Rory don’t tease!” She twisted to look up over her shoulder at him, a small crease between her brows.  
“I’m not teasing, my girl. There was a frightful row over you leaving Wellington and I wouldn’t be surprised if there was a fair bit of notice paid on this side of the ditch too.” With a sunny smile that didn’t please her one bit, he added, “A nice change from me getting all the attention, that’s for sure. Chin up! There go the ropes.”  
“Crime reporters don’t spout the awful guff art critics do” Troy set her jaw, mulishly. Still, she strode down the gangplank and dealt briskly with customs and immigration. A taxi, complete with driver and name card, was right outside the arrivals hall door. He deftly moved them through the smattering of reporters and crowd of waiting friends and family. “Giddy Miss Troy, Mr Alleyn.” The driver grinned once their cases were suitably strapped down and they were underway. “Mrs Dimmock’s at your hotel. I’m taking you straight there for breakfast.”

Adroitly handing Troy out and passing the cases off to the bell boy, the driver jerked his thumb at the main door, “Mrs Dimmock’s in-“  
“Miss Troy!”  
“is here” the driver subsided, accepting Alleyn’s tip with pleasure. “Cheerio.”  
“Thanks” Alleyn smiled, turning to submit to Mrs Dimmock’s ecstasies with a grace much enhanced by the excellent breakfast afforded them.

“We thought perhaps we’d do the final walk through tomorrow” Mrs Dimmock faux-suggested, once the two travellers were well on their way through their second pot of coffee. It hadn’t taken long for them to learn that Mrs Dimmock might word things as requests, but they were very definitely statements of how the world was to be. “This is not our first show but you never can be too careful. I know the others are all eager to get started but of _course_ we had to wait for you dear.”  
Troy smiled wanly, shooting her husband a brief glower from behind the safety of her cup. Rory – that swine – blandly emptied the coffee pot and made interested, if vague, murmurings. “Good! We’ll make sure everything is set up for tomorrow afternoon. Now. This morning – oh. Do excuse me.” In response to a summons by the waiter, Mrs Dimmock nearly bolted for the telephone. Alleyn, eyes dancing, offered Troy his coffee.

“She’s a force of nature” Troy gasped out, in between shocked laughter, “Do you think she ever walks anywhere?”  
“Not likely” Alleyn finished the drink and crossed one knee over the other, “if you could capture the essence of her…”  
“Sort of arrested mid-flight. Like a jumping horse.”  
“You did that marvellous thing of the hunt” Alleyn smiled, then “hush. Here she comes.”

“That was our patron, just calling to make sure you’d arrived. You’ll like her, Mr Alleyn, she’s a detective too.” Before Alleyn could even draw breath to reply, Mrs Dimmock was rattling on about the sights nearby and arrangements for the informal dinner following the walk-through. “I’ll send a car at seven for the dinner, that way you can both arrive together. Much nicer” she beamed, shaking hands and waving them back down to their chairs, “have a good day! Be sure to get out along the Yarra while the weather is good. Till tomorrow!”  
“Vanish into air; away!” Alleyn quoted, watching her go. “What do you think? Shall we follow advice and seek out the Yarra?”  
“Let’s unpack. Then we can look at the river.” Troy stood again, leading him to the desk for their key while Alleyn manfully suppressed his desire for his post-breakfast pipe and followed her up the stairs to their well-appointed room.


	2. Thursday, afternoon and evening, Guild Hall and surround

“I’m so glad you came with me” Troy smiled, sweetly, as Alleyn held the door to the imposing double-columned Guild Hall.  
“It wouldn’t do for you to get lost” he agreed, one eyebrow flickering upwards in his serio-comic wink. “Now go and do an honest day’s work, there’s a good little woman. There are things I want to spend my egg money on so it had best keep rolling in.” A passing dog-walker looked shocked and glowered at him, striding off muttering to her dog despite Alleyn tipping his hat in his most charming manner.  
“You’ll get arrested” Troy grinned, “and it will be no more than you deserve.”  
“In that case you had better know that the city gaol is right up the street.” Alleyn retorted, not entirely accurately. “Got your things? Right. I’ll see you at six-ish then.”  
“Don’t spend all your allowance at once.” Troy strode up the steps with the air of a woman returning to a trial she was familiar but not fond of, disappearing inside the sandstone edifice without a backward glance. Alleyn, smiling to himself, strolled back along the road towards Carlton Gardens. Lady Alleyn was too well-bred to hint that her son should bring her back a present, but her son was too well-bred to return without a curio or two to add to her collection. A Victorian Garden was likely to have postcards, too, perhaps even something humorous for Inspector Fox to chuckle at. 

Troy was relieved to see that Mrs Dimmock had yet to arrive. Indeed, aside from the people with Troy in the exhibition room, the building appeared empty. There were two other women standing a few metres away looking at an arresting painting of a clear-eyed female astride a horse. “It’s rather confronting hung right there, Hilda. Has the widow moved on? Is it possible?”  
“It’s _supposed_ to be confronting” the artist replied. She sounded irritable, almost too involved, thought Troy. Deciding she should see to her own works before joining the conversation, she slowly drifted to the far side of the room. To her intense embarrassment _A Purler of an Idea_ had been hung nearly by itself on the wall facing the entrance. She had painted it for this exhibition, and hoped it would sell early as she had no intention of taking it home and had no desire to worry about it, but it was still a shock to see it as a focal point. It looked even more khaki and beige on the clean white wall in the light wooden frame. Perhaps it was too unsettling to even hope to sell, despite the carefully including ‘Rising Sun’ design sketched on the grubby Christmas card she’d included on the mantelpiece, and the scatterings of coconut flakes and sticky golden syrup just visible on the edge of the kitchen table. Mentally shrugging her shoulders, Troy continued her inspection. She was regarding a crayon sketch of a shelled cathedral when the other two women came up to her.

“Agatha Troy” Troy smiled, “this is yours?” she added, looking at Hilda.  
“That’s right. Hilda Rix.” Gesturing at the red-head next to her Hilda added, “Lucy McGinty.”  
Lucy beamed, gripping Troy’s hand like an acolyte. “I’m thrilled you made it. Hilda’s been in Europe of course, and so’s Viv, but me and Jill haven’t made it out of Victoria.”  
_oh good gracious_ thought Troy, but she smiled warmly back and shook her head. “I’m sure you’ll get overseas one day. But really there’s a lot of excellent work here, and plenty of absorbing topics. You don’t need to travel far to see plenty of things that would make for a good subject.”  
“Exactly what I say” Hilda agreed. “After all, there’s no good carrying on like we’re still in Victorian England.” Her further discussion was broken by the arrival of their last members, followed closely by Mrs Dimmock and a retiring teen who alternated between scribbling frantically in her tiny notebook and pushing her glasses back up her acne-riddled forehead. Troy was glad the other four women were sensible, because Mrs Dimmock was incapable of leaving well enough alone. It took their combined powers to send her off again at five; they retained her scribe and the two workmen who had been lingering ready to leap into action when required. By the time they left just before six, the exhibit shifted seamlessly from the dark mercilessness of the trenches to the endless space and steady humanity of Australia.

“It might be a big empty space that doesn’t seem to care sometimes, but there’s always a cobber’s got your back, and you can make your own way.” Lucy reflected, as they considered the last few paintings. Any further discussion was arrested by the clock striking six. “Oh _hell_ ” Lucy swore, “and me nowhere near ready. I’d better go.”  
“I told Rory I’d meet him at six” Troy agreed. “See you at dinner” she followed Viv out, retracing her steps back down Russell St and into The Windsor.

“How was Mrs Dimmock?” Rory greeted her, looking up from his newspaper and pipe just as though they were at home rather than halfway round the world. “We sent her away” Troy admitted, “It was easier that way.”  
“I imagine. Sherry?” He stood and offered her a glass, absently tucking an escaped lock back behind her ear. “Tell me about it?”  
“Not much to tell.” Troy returned gruffly, “There’s four others, Hilda Nix – you may have seen some of her stuff in England after the war, and Vivian Lee, both a little older than me and both sort of looking like they came in from the country without much idea of enjoying the city. You know the sort. Would wear tweed and pearls back home.” Alleyn suppressed a smile at Troy’s usual sparse but accurate descriptions. “Then there’s two younger girls. Jill Beauchamp and Lucy McGinty. Jill probably just missed out on a finishing school and Lucy sounds like she’s from the wrong side of the river and looks like a pre-Raphaelite model. So that’s the five of us, plus Mrs Dimmock was causing havoc as usual. She seems to have developed a sort of attachment that trots around with a notepad, rather like a parody of Br’er Fox in pigtails.” Alleyn threw back his head and laughed. Troy smiled and sipped the excellent sherry, but her face soon fell.

“Only it’s a bit, well, it’s almost repellent. I suppose war’s like that and I don’t know what I expected for something commemorating ten years from Anzac Cove but do you think this is right? Taking money off the back of a painting of suffering?” Rory sipped his sherry, regarding her thoughtfully.  
“I wouldn’t have painted that otherwise. I know Hilda – Nix – would have. Had. Oh it’s a terrible triptych, Rory. And Viv is finally getting to show some of the things she sketched as a nurse, but it still feels wrong somehow. I know I said if that sock knitter gets sold the money will be going to a services league but now I wonder about the other things. They wouldn’t sell if people weren’t coming to gawp at war paintings.”  
“You can donate all the money if you want to” Rory pointed out reasonably, “it’s a worthy cause.” Troy gulped down her sherry and went to stare down at the grounds of Parliament. “It’s not really the money.”  
“I know. Look, if it helps, you’re doing this because the locals asked for it. They’re interested. They’re ready to do some reflecting, perhaps put some ghosts to rest. You’re not whipping up some sort of nationalistic fervour or anything like that.”  
“I suppose. But what if it isn’t the will of the people.”  
“It must be” Rory replied, practical as ever, “Mrs Dimmock is a force of nature but not even she can just whip up an art show without some sort of backing. The Guild Hall wouldn’t let just any old group of artists put on a show.”

His wife regarded him a little warily, so he tapped out his pipe, neatly tucked the paper away on the desk, and cleared his throat. “Listen here old girl.” He began, lips doing a slight mow of possible distress, “not to make a big song and dance about it but I think that’s the best way to think about it. Did you make it to the 1919 exhibition?”  
“No. Father was quite unwell.”  
“Mm. Well from memory there were a couple of things about Digger’s digs which might have been relevant now. Nonetheless, that was Sargent’s year – he produced _Gassed_ and it was voted picture of the year. It’s a monstrous big thing, about seven-and-a-half feet tall and three times as high.” Troy shook her head, indicating both that she hadn’t seen it and that she would hesitate to fill up that much canvas. “He’d been sent over as one of the war artists you know, get some good documentation. We were beginning to look like winning then but it was still fairly early days. July, if memory serves. A bunch of them came over or had been over – Paul and John Nash, Spencer, Lamb – looking for some good subjects. Unfortunately Sargent decided on some gassed soldiers. I think it was the realism. The others had all been quite…modern, quite inhuman. Well, you know what Paul Nash is like. Not even a body in half his landscapes. It was true, I think, but it didn’t feel like exploitation, especially since he’d been there. But Sargent-”

Troy couldn’t remember seeing Rory look quite so disenfranchised before.

He cleared his throat and carried on. “They were my men, Troy. If not mine in reality then mine in spirit. He didn’t understand _why_ people were standing by playing games, _why_ they’re hurrying from the planes… well. It got him six hundred pounds and personal thanks from Lord Beaverbrook. You know how I feel about Beaverbrook. So I wouldn’t fret too much, Troy. You’re not part of all that. You never could be, so long as you ask the question. You’re not trying to “lift up their hearts in large destructive lust.” Do what you want with the money, but don’t flagellate yourself.”

They stood staring at each other for a shocked moment, then Alleyn tapped the bowl of his pipe against his hand in an awkward bounce, still with a far-away look in his eyes. “Come here Rory” Troy offered, holding out a charcoal-smudged hand as if to a nervous cat. Rory came, sitting at her feet and letting her card her long slim fingers through his disordered hair.

***

Miss Fisher extricated herself from Mrs Dimmock with a sigh of relief. It was just as well her daughter was due any week now; grandchildren would hopefully keep Mrs Dimmock away from sitting rooms and too busy to menace public spaces. With any luck the baby would be spared that unfortunate twisted lip her mother had been born with. “Mac! Viv! Hello!” Phryne hugged her eldest friend with unselfconscious warmth, beaming at Viv and waiting while they hung up their things. “There was a taxi right behind us” Viv commented, having obviously heard the strident tones of Mrs Dimmock, “probably the Alleyns.”  
“Wouldn’t do to keep our honoured guests waiting at the front door” Phryne winked, happily lingering in the hallway with the couple. “Any news?”  
“Nothing in particular” Mac returned, “it’s been very quiet in my morgue lately. Almost as though a certain someone has decided to focus her efforts elsewhere.”  
“That sounds very boring for you” Phryne replied, “I shall have to look into that.” At Viv’s theatrical groan she added hastily, “not until after next month. Juggling a murder, whatever nasty thing is in the morgue right now, _and_ an exhibition is probably a bit much to ask.”  
“It would be nice to have _one_ anniversary together” the painter commented primly, “if that could possibly be managed.”  
“I shall do my best” Phryne promised, moving forward to receive their next guests. “Miss Troy! Mr Alleyn! Welcome.”  
“Thank you Miss Fisher” Alleyn returned, a dangerous sparkle in his eye as he removed Troy’s coat for her. If he was any judge of character, Miss Fisher and Troy were about to make dinner very interesting.

“Miss Vivian Lee” Phryne continued, eyebrow barely flickering upwards at Alleyn’s old-fashioned gallantry, “and my friend Dr MacMillan.”  
“Miss Lee, Dr MacMillan.” Alleyn shook hands gravely, stepping back so Troy could join in and absently blocking the doorway until everyone was ready to traipse in and present themselves to Mrs Dimmock.

“I brought along my husband, Mr Alleyn.” Mrs Dimmock announced, as Mr Butler retreated with an empty tray, “There he is. He works at Parliament.” With a flourish of her expensive earrings, Mrs Dimmock turned her back on the men, returning to the feminine discussion at hand.  
“How do you do, Mr Dimmock?” Alleyn inquired, smiling warmly at his allocated conversation partner and obediently seating himself at the window with the pale Mr Dimmock.  
“Not so well” that man replied, indulging in a wet cough, “it’s this weather you see.”  
_Oh hell_ thought Alleyn. A quick glance around resulted in nothing more helpful than a laughing look from Troy, so he quickly poured a second drink and set to making conversation.

Meanwhile, the women were enjoying themselves much more. Although not all of them were artists (despite her protestations at ‘daubing a little when I have some time to myself’ nobody counted Mrs Dimmock in that number), they had plenty in common. As Lucy, Jill, and Hilda joined them – the latter sending her husband off to keep the other two men company, much to Alleyn’s relief – the conversation ranged from local scandal to parts of Europe various women had been to, and was wending its steady way towards the approaching relocation of Federal Parliament to their new building in Canberra when Mr Butler ushered them through for dinner.

“Where is Detective Inspector Robinson, Miss Fisher?” Jill asked, unused to Miss Fisher’s parties being quite so unbalanced.  
“At home I believe.” Miss Fisher returned, “I imagine he’ll come along tomorrow for the opening though. This is just a little pre-show fun for the closely involved.” Mac returned her grin with a good flash of teeth, her steady hand petting Viv’s knee below the table. Alleyn wondered if he was seeing things, and made a mental note to check up state law as soon as he could. “Probably just as well” He replied, “otherwise poor Mr Dimmock and Mr Nicholas wouldn’t get a word in at the men’s corner.” That time he definitely saw the hidden smile in Mac’s lips and caught Viv’s little sideways glance.  
“You’re supposed to be on holiday” Troy remarked mildly, “and Miss Fisher hasn’t finished telling me where the market is so I can see the whole lobster. Apparently they’re quite the beast.” Barely missing a beat, Miss Fisher led a discussion on lobster in Victoria.

As Mrs Dimmock took over the conversation, Phryne considered the delicately boned artist opposite her. Where Phryne’s short hair was slick and straight, Troy’s seemed nearly on the verge of venturing out of its pins. Where Phryne revelled in each new dress, Troy’s was impeccably cut but a couple seasons old (even taking the change from London to Melbourne into account). She wore it as though it brought her little pleasure but needed to be borne until she could escape into something more comfortable – rather like Mac out of her suits. Finally, and most surprisingly, Alleyn appeared to defer to his wife’s requests yet was as far from Mr Dimmock in personality as it was possible to imagine. Jack was only that submissive when she was at her most demanding. It was quite the puzzle. Luckily Miss Fisher thrived on puzzles.

***

“Do you think you could shock Mr Alleyn a little less?” Viv inquired of Mac, watching the latter brush out her hair. “He isn’t as tame as Jack Robinson you know.”  
“Oh he’s on holiday, you heard his wife.” Mac replied airily, regarding her partner fondly in the mirror, “Don’t worry too much about it. Tomorrow’s your big night, and there’s nothing to keep me away.” Viv laughed, patting the bed next to her.  
“You’re utterly ridiculous you know.” As Mac went through her routine of stripping cravat, watch chain, and cuff links at her table, Viv rolled her eyes. “I know. But I’m your ridiculous. Besides, you love me really.”  
“I do” Mac winked, hanging her suit up with care, “even though I know you’re already thinking of some dreadfully twee pose for me to hold so you can take me with you when you go away next year.”  
Viv sighed. “Don’t. It’s nearly enough to make me stay here. Six months!”  
“Stay with Troy. Drink over-priced London champagne. Take the critics by storm.” Mac flopped into the feather pillows with a theatrical groan, “just come back to me afterwards.”  
“Silly. As if I wouldn’t.”

***  
  


Alleyn smirked at Troy as she came to bed. “Were you trying to stir up trouble or were you trying to cheer me up?”  
“I thought you were a detective” Troy retorted, wriggling her toes now they were free from her heels, and regarding Rory severely. “If you can’t detect what your wife is up to, what hope do we have of you solving the latest case?”  
“Good to know someone believes in me” her husband chuckled. As she turned out the light, he dropt a gentle kiss on her cheek. “Thank you.”  
“Mhm.”  
  


***

Mr Dimmock turned out his light and lay in the dark, thinking. Alleyn seemed a nice enough chap, the sort of fellow you met hanging around the place being sociable. Bit more personable than most of the other drips that Mrs Dimmock was always inviting around for some fundraiser or another. Dinkum, he’d explained fingerprint matching in detail. Nice not to be talked down to. He’d been a soldier before, there was no reason he shouldn’t fight for himself again. Mrs Dimmock’d be too distracted with the new baby to notice she’d ceded power back to her husband. Be nice to have some rights in his own home.  
Mr Dimmock rolled over, and slept. His dreams were full of eating raisins in his morning porridge, getting a job at Flinders St and watching the trains, and going into his local for a drink without everybody shuffling away from him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hilda Rix Nicholas is a real artist, and her name and pictures are used here to add to the historic feeling of the work only. I strongly recommend looking her up and admiring her talent and her fortitude; she sounds like an amazing woman. The paintings referenced in this chapter are Pro Humanitate and Bringing in the Sheep (which was actually painted in 1936 but is too arresting to leave out); the Australian National Portrait Gallery has some excellent resources should you be interested.
> 
> Other historical artists alluded to obviously exist, and their work is reproduced on line if you are a research bunny. The 'Diggers digs' works Alleyn alludes to include Fullwoods "Australian Troops' Billet in Picardy, 1918" (nr 102 in the 1919 exhibition) and (somewhat erroneously) Septimus Power's "1st Australian Divisional Artillery" (nr 281 in the exhibition programme). "Gassed" was nr 120 in the programme. 
> 
> Alleyn quotes Sassoon's 'At the Cenotaph'.


	3. Pictures at an exhibition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I never know how much of the research should be included in these works, as I have no real concept of how much is general knowledge. I have dumped my best guess for information that will improve understanding in the end notes, anyway.

That Friday was warm enough as to feel more like February than April. This suited the many well-to-do (and not-so-well-to-do) Melbournites as they walked towards Guild Hall. It had been enticingly illuminated, and an enterprising restaurant opposite Parliament had encouraged early dining for those attending the opening but in need of something more substantial than canapes. General consensus had resulted in half the exhibition entrance fees going to Bundoora, and a bus from the home arrived bearing the most suitable patients promptly at half past seven. Nurses in stiff white aprons ensured their charges were well-settled and familiar with the surroundings. All had been briefed beforehand and had elected to sit ranged along the inside wall, able to keep an eye on the food and the exits simultaneously.

At a quarter to eight, Mrs Dimmock bustled up to the head nurse to ensure all was in readiness. At least three of the patients shifted uneasily at her strident tones. Other, luckier men, were down the other end of the line and subject to Miss Fisher’s winning smile and Mrs Collins’ steady gaze. Over the next quarter of an hour the exhibition space filled up with people. Women in bright dresses and elegantly-perched hats flittered like a flock of eager galahs. Men in sombre black eyed the patients uneasily, and hastily made discussion amongst themselves.

“Ah! Mrs Alleyn!” Miss Fisher pounced upon the foreign artist, recently abandoned by Lucy and Jill, “oh dear. Your husband is quite distracting, isn’t he?”  
“Troy, please.” Troy smiled, glancing at Alleyn patiently enduring the rhapsodies of the two over-excited young artists. “He has the most lovely bones.” Before Miss Fisher could think that was a _double entendre,_ Troy gestured at a painting of a silhouette of a man seated at a desk, shutting his Army ID and ‘dog tags’ in a drawer already containing a squashed service cap. “Perfect for modelling.” Indeed there was a sharply delineated cheek bone picked out in careful highlight in the light from the tall window showing a game of Aussie Rules. “He certainly does.” Phryne agreed. Then, lacking anything to say, “I am sorry though. I thought you were married…”  
“Oh! Yes we are. But that doesn’t make me his anymore than it means he belongs to me.” Troy smiled sheepishly at her companion’s broad grin.  
“You can’t imagine how refreshing it is to hear someone else say what I’m thinking!” Phryne chuckled. “I’m forever saying I don’t want to become someone’s possession but it doesn’t stop my Aunt trying to marry me off.”  
“I can’t imagine you being anyone’s possession” Troy admitted frankly, and was rewarded with a bright smile. Phryne had opened her mouth to reply when the clock announced eight, so instead grimaced and turned with Troy to face the door where Mrs Dimmock was standing with Hilda and Viv. “No stay right here” She commanded when Troy looked concerned she should be with the others, “it’s alright.”

It was alright, too. Mrs Dimmock spoke, a man from Bundoora spoke, the artists were toasted, and Miss Fisher – as patron – declared the exhibition open. It didn’t take long for Miss Fisher to be snapped up by another group of women and Troy escaped to Mac and Viv thankfully. “You haven’t had a drink yet” Mac accused, with characteristic forthrightness, “as a doctor, I prescribe one. Drinks all round!” Troy laughed, sharing an amused glance with Viv, and obediently started on a glass of champagne. “It must be so fascinating being at the morgue, Dr MacMillan. Some of the stories Rory comes home with are really quite fantastic but I imagine they are the same the world over.”  
“Absolutely” Mac agreed, quickly snagging a second glass and adroitly enticing over a young man bearing trays of canapes. “Though things were more interesting at the university. Oh, you didn’t hear about that. I was roped in to teach there and…” She told a very good story, yet continued to entice canapes. The combined effect was quite the little bubble of people which both protected Troy and Viv from any particularly odious critics and kept the party lively.

***

Despite the time, Jack elected to leave his car at City South. It wasn’t that far to walk and parking would be horrific. He couldn’t find it in himself to really regret missing the speeches, but half an hour late wasn’t that bad and if he was honest with himself he had a professional desire to meet Chief Detective Inspector Alleyn. It wasn’t every day the author of _Principles and Practice of Criminal Investigations_ turned up on your doorstep. It didn’t take long to walk up to Guild Hall, and he was lucky enough to snag a drink and a sandwich as soon as he entered. He picked out Phryne – ensconced in the middle of a gaggle of admirers – and Alleyn – towering over the heads of some apparently infatuated women – as soon as he looked up from his glass. He was just planning out his route through the throng when a strangely familiar voice called his name. “Jack! Jack Sprat!”  
“Blue!” He’d known Bundoora was involved of course, but hadn’t expected to know anyone. “How’s it going, cobber?”  
“Pull up a pew” the digger invited, refilling Jack’s glass with a purloined bottle, “Strewth but you look bloody good Sprat. Still policing?”  
“Still policing” Jack grinned, “they nearly let you out yet?”  
“Nearly. Reckon there’s a tidy spot down country I can go to in a few weeks, cob. Nothing there but sheep and space.”  
“Yeah?”  
“Yeah. One of them buy-you-off places, but the bloke running it sounds like a good ‘un. I’ll drop you a line, give you the address.”  
“Cheers.” Jack swallowed the drink with difficulty, unsure how to proceed. Part of him loved catching up with old mates, seeing how everyone was. The rest of him felt like he was rubbing their noses in his relative success, and had no idea how to talk with someone who’s only thing in common was understanding the treatment of saddle-sores infected from biking all day in pants you shat in the day before while under bombardment. “Look at you, Sprat” Blue continued, “Inspector now eh? Making a real name for yourself.” As Jack’s lip twisted the Digger added, “nah cob, be proud of it. Not your fault and not mine either. Just how we’re wired I reckon. Doesn’t mean it was easy for you.”  
Jack smiled, relaxing. “Ta. Um, you been at Bundoora long?” Blue laughed and Jack couldn’t help joining in. He had one of those welcoming sorts of laughs.

Meanwhile, Lucy and Jill had been introduced to the rigours of art critics and were stoutly defending their work from accusations of derivation, cramped palette, and general lack of taste. Jill had already left her winning smile behind and fallen back behind her glower of disbelief when aid sailed in in the form of Mrs Dimmock and her spotty-faced help. That implacable woman soon had the press eating out of her hand and one of the great men even deigned to bow slightly at Lucy and admit her work was ‘quite nice really, for a girl’ which comment left all four ladies speechless. Not one to let the grass grow beneath her conversational feet, Mrs Dimmock exhaled in a rush, uttered one “well I never!” then gestured at the Bundoora men still ranged against the wall, most ignored by the standing toffs. “Well ladies. We had best see our proper audience. Come along.”

  
“Is she always like this?” Jill inquired of the unattractively frizzled help.  
“Oh yes miss. She’s all about helping people. S’why m’here.” With an unhealthy sniff, the poor girl stuck out a hand. “Evans, Miss. Cathy Evans.”  
“Jill Beauchamp” Jill returned, successfully not wiping her hand on her skirt. “Mrs Dimmock’s lucky to have a girl like you to help her. Miss Fisher always says she’d not last a day without Mrs Collins.” Evans already blotchy faced coloured an uneven crimson. “S’kind of you to say so Miss.”  
 _Probably doesn’t get much thanks_ Jill reflected, smiling weakly and leading Evans to the Diggers who had so far escaped Mrs Dimmock. Having spent very little of her time around men she dreaded having to make conversation, but the one she ended up with must have been about her own age and seemed quite normal, if a little too interested in cricket. Jill had captained her first eleven at school however, and was more than up to the task.

Conversation with Blue was just languishing when a slight woman with dark eyes and hair flashed Jack a shy smile. Blue by this stage was clearly more interested in general chatter than catching up with Jack and the Inspector felt safe enough to stand up and greet the apparition. Blue broke off to run blunt fingers through his dark red locks and grin a farewell to Jack, but returned to a debate about Ponsford’s tonsils which Jack had no interest in.  
“I’m sorry.” The woman started, hesitantly.  
“You must be Agatha Troy.” Jack smiled, understanding breaking over his face. “Glad to meet you. Jack Robinson” he added, offering her his hand.  
“I thought you were” Troy admitted, with a firm handshake, “My husband has the same sheepish look about him whenever he arrives late. Big case?”  
“More paperwork” Jack admitted, warming to her more and more. “But aren't you supposed to be charming critics and things?”  
“They’re all charmed” the artist sipped from her glass and added, “I don’t want to drag you from your friends but I know Rory was wanting to meet you.”  
“Rory?”  
“My husband. Roderick Alleyn.”  
“Oh!” Jack was as informal as most antipodeans, but had somehow not imagined the famous Chief Detective Inspector being casually referred to as _Rory_. Though Chief Detective Inspector Roderick Alleyn was admittedly a bit of a mouthful. “Of course. I’d been hoping to meet him actually.”  
Troy half-turned, leading Jack through the crowd, and touched Alleyn’s elbow.

Jack had felt knobbly and unfinished next to the smoothly cut bulk of Collins when they were at St Kilda, emerging from the sea later and hoping nobody paid attention. Sprat by name, sprat by nature. The same unease vanished in the face of Alleyn’s extraordinary height and wiriness. Jack wasn’t a short man, but Alleyn was still taller, and in his formal suit quite an imposing sight. He looked, Jack thought, like images of knights he’d seen when exploring the old country, but without all those fussy ribbons and long hair. It wouldn’t have surprised him to find Alleyn was the ruler of a minor principality, or was on a short leave of absence from Buckingham Palace. Instead, Alleyn turned his gaze from a pastoral scene framed by vividly flowering gum trees, and smiled warmly. “Hullo”  
“I found you someone to talk with” Troy announced, “You seem to have frightened off poor Mr Dimmock.”  
“Hush. You’ll scare the man.” Alleyn half-winked at Jack. “You must be Jack Robinson. Roderick Alleyn.” They shook hands. “Everyone says we’re going to be great mates, so I imagine you’re a sensible sort of chap. Skipped the speeches and went straight for the food, which rather confirms it. How’d’you do?”  
Jack was startled into a grin. So much for judging by appearances! “Can’t complain, Chief De-“  
“Alleyn, please. Makes me seem an awful bore otherwise.”  
“Can’t complain, Alleyn. You’d better call me Jack then.”  
“I’ll leave you to it” Troy murmured, “If conversation languishes I have it on good authority that Jack is fond of his Shakespeare, Rory.”  
“Treasure of a woman. Don’t have too much fun with the critics.” Rory shook his head sorrowfully at Jack. “Unlike you I never had much luck convincing her to detect, but she’d be very good at it. Quite useful for coming up with sketches and plans and so on though.” He smiled, “and now we’ve shocked you. There was a Shakespeare compendium on the back bookshelf at Wardlow last night, and although it was well-read, it didn’t belong there, the sun here is strong enough to damage covers but the cover was in excellent condition even taking into account the fact it had been rebound about ten years ago, so it had to have been yours. I didn’t know Troy had particularly noticed it though…”  
“Are you sure you aren’t Sherlock Holmes?” Jack was surprised into blurting out.   
Alleyn looked delighted, “you like Sherlock Holmes?”  
“I think it’s one of the things that drew me to policing.”  
“Oh drat. They’re quite right you know, we’re going to get on famously. What do you make of the post-Reichenbach stuff?”

***

It was well past midnight by the time Phryne and Jack were settled in her parlour having their customary nightcap. They had left relatively early, though not before Mac and Viv and Hilda and her husband had taken their leave. Now they sat, though Jack kept glancing up at the book shelves.  
“What is it?” Phryne eventually asked, a little annoyed her recap of Mrs Dimmock’s speech wasn’t getting his full attention.  
“Have you seen my Shakespeare?”  
“Of course. It’s on the mantelpiece.”  
“It’s not” Jack stood, ignoring Phryne’s frustrated harrumph. “Collins must have borrowed it again. How on earths did they see it over here?” He touched the book nestled in the far end of the room. “He’s right about the sun, too. What am I playing at, Phryne?”  
“What on earths do you mean? Playing at?” So Jack recounted the whole conversation, attempting to account for how such a small detail could be noticed during one evening of drinks. “Well he is a Detective, and she is a world-class painter. I imagine you’d pick up on something like that too if you were looking for it.”  
“That’s just it” Jack admitted, “I don’t think I would unless it was part of a crime in some way.”  
Phryne crossed over, walking her fingers up her shoulder. “Well if it’s that much of a concern, I know a way to heighten your skills.”  
“I don’t doubt it, Miss Fisher” he returned to his chair. “But I rather think there’s a difference between close observation of another human and general observation of inanimate objects. My interrogation skills are not a concern at this time.”  
“I’m only trying to help, Jack.” She settled beside him, holding his gaze as she reached over for the decanter. Jack chuckled and let her have her own way for a few minutes.

***

In his bed in Bundoora, Blue turned out his light and closed his eyes. It’d been good to see Sprat after all these years, to see how his old messenger mate was going. Bloody good to have something new to talk about, too, instead of being cooped up. They’d none of them liked the whole idea, all those horrors sanitised and plastered on a wall for people to stare at, flip some of the coin down to the blokes that’d made it all possible, pocket the rest and call it a good days work. Talk about kicking a man while he was down. Eight years, it had been, and he was stuck in bloody Bundoora while all his mates were out making lives for themselves. At least if he’d come back with a limp he’d be made PM. Still. It had been a night out, hadn’t it? And a halfway decent one for all the rark up he’d wanted to give Mrs Dimmock and her honeyed words.

The only thing that would have made it better was seeing a bit more of the inside of the pub everyone’d headed to after. Wouldn’t have thought all those toffs would have wanted to lower themselves to beer but enough did and he’d never turned down a free drink in his life. Behind his lids danced happy images of those two young girls and their artist friends experiencing the fun of a post-opening night binge. The sort of nice girl a chap could get used to seeing, especially after all the brisk nurses he normally had hanging around the place. Fixing his mind on Jill laughingly trying to dance with him, knowing the harrowing images from the exhibition wouldn’t worry him, the recovering soldier fell asleep.

***

“Evans!” Mrs Dimmock was determined all tonight’s rubbing shoulders with Melbourne’s best wouldn’t go to the girls head. “Evans!”  
“Yes’m” Poor Evans gasped, having had to run up two flights of stairs without making any ‘confounded thumping’. “Here I am.”  
“Finally. You were just bringing me some water, I think. And Mr Dimmock probably will need one of his powders, so perhaps you could grab one while you’re in there. The poor man is _so_ sensitive. Oh and Evans?”  
Evans paused in the doorway.  
“Don’t sulk. Nobody wants a sulky girl mooning about the place. Off you go.”  
Evans went.

Mrs Dimmock enthroned herself at her dressing table and began to remove her makeup. It had been hot in the Guild Hall. She hadn’t particularly noticed it at the time but it had left her feeling light-headed and a little faint. Evans came in with the water and she drank it down gratefully, sending the girl off to bed. She heard the wretched girl clomp back downstairs, heard Mr Dimmock make his nightly trip down the hall and shut his door, and breathed out. The house could be so loud sometimes. Now if only her head would stop behaving like a spinning top, she could really enjoy the silence.

Evans religiously bathed her spotty face with soap and rubbed futilely at the skin like the magazines said. The massage was tricky, especially with bits of soap on her fingers threatening to get in her eyes, but it would be worth it. It had to be worth it. She was going to be seventeen soon, she couldn’t be looking for a new place and be all over spots.

Mr Dimmock dropped off to sleep reliving the fun of the evening. He’d managed more than a few interesting conversations, and was still smiling as he slipped into dreams. Distantly he heard Mrs Dimmock flop onto her bed, then heard no more.

In her room, Mrs Dimmock lay, life slowly seeping from her supine form.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bundoora Repatriation Hospital was established in 1920 to help repatriate soldiers, especially mental health patients. The average age of patients was 27, hence Jill's conversational partner being similar in age as her.  
> For context that means nearly ten years after the war ended, there was such a demand for live-in rehabilitative care that one small home was caring full time for 40 men who were barely old enough to be practising a profession. 
> 
> "buy-you-off place" - In Australia (as with other countries), returning servicemen were given parcels of land by the Government, the idea being they could settle land and farm to look after themselves. Sadly a lot of the land were traditional First People's land and soldiers were often clueless city boys. Still, at least the Government tried.
> 
> Cycle Battalions (AIF, then ANZAC, finally Australian (but with a kiwi battalion)) were official from 1916 to 1918 and served widely through the Western Front as dispatch riders, signal wire layers, recon troops, and general dogsbodies (including burying the dead). They were regularly exposed to enemy fire, including strafing and bombardments; it is not unusual for even hardened soldiers to lose control of their bowels in these circumstances and is a constant risk of infection. As soon as Jack mentioned how good he was at riding it seemed the perfect position for him.
> 
> Bill Ponsford was a very good, famous, Australian Cricketer, who had to miss several Ashes matches due to tonsillitis.
> 
> The PM of Australia at the time (Stanley Bruce) was shot twice in WW1, the second time in his knee cap; he therefore walked with a limp.


	4. The Discovery

Jack was almost disappointed when he arrived at the Dimmock’s the next morning and Miss Fisher was nowhere to be seen. He’d got so used to her turning up to his murders (often before he even knew they had happened) that it almost seemed wrong to start without her. Still, he was nothing if not professional, so as soon as Mr Dimmock was dealt with, the Inspector gestured to Collins and they made their way upstairs to Mrs Dimmock’s mammoth bedroom.

The lady herself was sprawled on the bed with a stillness that she had never enjoyed in life. “Doesn’t look very comfy, does it Sir?” Collins, accurate as ever, regarded the remains with a doubtful eye. “She didn’t just lie down like that did she?”  
“She may have, Collins.” Jack paused carefully at the doorway, speaking almost at random as he looked around, “If she was already unwell she may have.”  
“He seemed pretty convinced she was murdered.” Collins muttered, watching his superior’s actions and attempting to mimic them, “bit suspicious isn’t it? Wouldn’t you normally blame, I dunno, being crook?”  
“Look at her, Collins." The Inspector turned his full interest to the conversation. "You're right - she didn’t lie down like that to sleep. She looks a bit blue, she’s clearly been like that several hours, and I bet she doesn’t normally even _think_ of going to bed all dressed up with her necklaces on.” Jack stepped into the room, crossing swiftly to the bed and staring down at the unattractive sight. “We’ll do a good look around the body and make sure the wagon is on its way before getting on with the room and the household. Hopefully Mac didn’t have any plans for today.”  
Innocently, Collins offered, “Miss Fisher said yesterday that Dr MacMillan and Miss Lee were planning on a walk up round Dandenong but I guess if they’re that old friends Miss Lee won’t mind.”  
Jack manfully kept his eyes focused on the problem at hand until Collins had disappeared to use the telephone. He was a sweet lad, but for all his ability at work was sometimes quite surprisingly dense. Jack sighed and returned to the problem before him, remaining studying her while Collins returned. He was just drawing Collins’ attention back to the minor inconsistencies with her state of dress and her uncomfortable-looking downturned palms when a muffled sob drew their attention to the door.

“Oh it’s the Missus!” the awkward figure clamped red fingers to her moist red mouth and let out another sob, “oh _oh_ ” The two policemen glanced at each other for a moment, then Jack moved swiftly towards her. “Come into the kitchen. Have a cuppa.” Leading her away he gestured at Collins. “Sketch this out Collins then come and join us.”  
“Yessir.” Sucking his pencil, Collins regarded the ornately fussy room and wondered where his boss would draw the line. Sighing he set to pacing out distances for his plan of the room.

“Now then.” Jack settled the unfortunate girl at the table, let’s start at the beginning.”  
“I’m Cathy Evans Sir” Evans gabbled, even though Jack had seen her tagging along after Mrs Dimmock, “I live here and I went out this morning like usual to get the paper like Mr Dimmock likes, and the milk and sort out breakfast and all. Only I was a bit late back since Ernie – the news man – he wanted to hear about last night and all. He was a Digger and wanted to make sure it was all good, you know? So I only come back now.” Her words were a curious mix of street and toff; Jack wondered which Home she had come from or if he was just reading too much into a simple situation.  
“You hadn’t looked in on Mrs Dimmock before you left?”  
Evans laughed, then looked shocked at her behaviour. “No Sir. Not her. Let sleeping dogs lie, that’s what the Master and me says.”  
“Very sensible.” Jack nudged a chair out for Collins. “So you left here around…”  
“After seven. I heard the clock go as I was getting up.”  
“Around quarter past seven. Went down and fetched in the milk, got the breakfast things out, and off to see Ernie. You came back at” Jack glanced at his watch “just after eight.”  
“Ernie’s awfully chatty. I couldn’t get away.”  
Collins nodded that he’d written everything down. Jack regarded Evans with what he hoped was a fatherly stare. “Don’t leave the property until we’ve said you can. I suggest you make your breakfast and carry on about your day. Mr Dimmock will be through soon, we’ll just interview him.”  
“Did he find the body Sir?”  
“He called us.” Jack stood, followed hastily by Collins.

Mr Dimmock was perched on his desk chair when they went into the study. He looked rather like a frightened animal. _He could have done it_ Jack remembered a phrase from Alleyn’s book ‘ _It is a hackneyed truism that most murders are committed by close friends or family of the victim. In the case of married victims, the perpetrator is usually their spouse.’_ It was hard to believe this worn-out looking man could possibly have connived to kill his energetic, vibrant, wife.  
“Morning Mr Dimmock. Constable Collins and I are just going to ask you a few questions.”  
“Of course. Thank you for….for the time.” If he were a cornered animal surely he was the Echidna. Jack hoped his spines didn’t come out. “I don’t know what came over me” even his voice sounded shy. “I suppose you want to know what happened.”  
“In your own words.”  
“Well. I got up, and Mrs Dimmock’s door was open.” One fluttering hand passed over his face, “I thought it was odd, stuck my head in on the way back to my room.”  
Collins dutifully recorded the fact that Mr and Mrs Dimmock had separate rooms. He seemed surprised. Jack hoped his junior never had to face that conversation with Mrs Collins.  
“What did you see, Mr Dimmock?” Mr Dimmock took another of his shaking, damp, breaths, and gathered himself for another attempt at words.  
“She was just lying there. Like a…well. You’ve seen her. She’s never lying like that. Always changes and does her skin routine and things, does Mrs Dimmock. Takes pride in her appearance. So I went in and she was…oh it was…” He trailed off again and Jack mentally counted to five before leaning forward.  
“Take your time.”  
As usually happened, this got him talking again. “She was quite cold. Looked all funny. No point trying to wake her up and I thought...well….I didn’t know what to think. No point calling a Doctor is there? So I thought when in doubt, ask a policeman.” He gurgled a horrible sound. Jack stood.  
“Thank you Mr Dimmock. Collins will take the details of you and everyone else in the household. The van will be here shortly for Mrs Dimmock. Please remain in the house until we are done with the investigation.” When Mr Dimmock looked lost Jack repeated himself and gestured that Collins had better go and get the information from Evans instead.

Just as the first drudgery of routine was over, Miss Fisher breezed in. “Ah Jack. I thought I might find you here.”  
“Miss Fisher” The Inspector looked up from his consideration of Mrs Dimmock’s dresser, “You’re late” he teased.  
“I arrived as soon as I heard. After all, you didn’t call me.” She joined him, running curious fingers over the pots vying for space on the intricate lace doily. “Quite rude of you really. Almost as though you don’t want my help.”  
Jack very nearly rolled his eyes, and bit down a smile. “Whatever gave you that idea? I didn’t want to interrupt your sleep, that’s all.”  
“I hope you aren’t about to say something about my beauty sleep, Jack.” Phryne pouted opulently, nearly skipping to the other side of the room and inspecting the bed clothes minutely.  
“I wouldn’t be so foolish.” He regarded her for a moment. “Why are you here?”  
“Dot called round with Hugh’s rain cloak, she’s sure it’s going to rain and he’d left it at home. When she heard you were out at a case….”  
“You’ve taught her far too well, Miss Fisher.” Abandoning the mysteries of an older woman’s face potions, he joined her in regarding the bed, and the body on it. They were still considering it when the van came to take her away; other than some suggestions of difficulty breathing and general discomfit there seemed little the matter. She wasn’t peaceful, but she hadn’t died in agony either.

Jack left a constable outside to prevent gawkers then followed the Hispano back to City South. Along the way he had to brush off Collins half-hearted apology for being (yet again) the unwitting source of information for Miss Fisher. At this point in his life, Jack was resigned to sharing investigations. Alleyn had been quite nice about it the night before, likening Jack to the famous Lestrade, but hastening to assure Jack the Australian was no doubt more proficient at his trade. 

“Will you speak with Chief Detective Inspector Alleyn, Sir?” Collins inquired, once they were grouped back inside City South.  
“I suppose I’ll have to, depending on what the autopsy says.” Jack grunted, “There’s an outside chance it’s a slow acting poison, in which case he’d be a suspect.”  
Hugh paled slightly. “I meant will you ask him to help, Sir. Not that I thought he’d be a murderer….”  
“I know” Jack smiled, “start typing up those notes. Let me know when they’re done.” He followed Phryne into his office, and shut the door.  
“Hugh doesn’t mean you’re not up to the job” she assured him, “you know he thinks the world of you.” When Jack didn’t reply, she perched on his desk and crossed her knees elegantly. “Don’t be angry at him Jack.”  
“I’m not angry at him. I want a time and cause of death, and something more meaningful than ‘possibly suspicious circumstances’. She’s not a young woman, and probably not in the best of health judging from her appearance. I can’t open an investigation based on that, and I can’t call in a CDI just to give Collins someone new to moon over.”  
“At least Collins has good taste.” Phryne teased, then leant forward and shook a finger gently in Jacks face. “Oh Jack. Don’t. I’m only teasing.” Hopping up she continued briskly, “tell me what you know.”

***

Troy and Alleyn swapped paper sections, returning to their respective coffees and barely glancing up until Alleyn cleared his throat. “It’s very good” he informed his wife, uncrossing his long legs and placing the folded paper where his plate of bacon and eggs had been. “I shouldn’t be surprised if it encouraged a few more people to turn up. They say nice things about you, too.” He added, when Troy looked askance.  
“I have read it” she pointed out.  
“I know. What did you think?” He sipped his coffee, watching her curiously. It never failed to amaze him how this mercurial woman had dared tie herself to him; he had no desire to cause her to doubt that decision.  
“It seemed fair. A bit heavy on the ‘women artists’ aspect and a bit light on the hope stuff we tried for at the end.” She smirked a little, “He likes your face.”  
“He’s in good company. I’m rather fond of it myself” Alleyn assured her, then more seriously, “Especially the way you depict it. I don’t know why they talk about the other work, you’ve surpassed yourself this time.” When she looked ready to denounce him he murmured, “Sorry” and subsided again.

It appeared Troy was about to speak some more when they were interrupted by the same waiter as the morning of their arrival, with a similar message. “From the police station, Sir, for you.” The waiter murmured, with a discreet display of interest.  
“It’s probably just Jack looking to tell me about his spare tennis kit” Rory smiled reassuringly, unfolding himself from his breakfast chair. “Hold that thought, Darling, and don’t do the crossword without me.” Troy laughed, fishing a stubby pencil out of one pocket and regarding the crossword with a frown.

Her frown deepened when Rory returned and remained standing. “Rory? Rory!”  
“Mrs Dimmock was found dead this morning. He thinks she may have been poisoned. Would you rather be questioned here or at the station?” She gaped at him for quite ten seconds before standing as well. “At the station. We don’t want policemen tramping all around the hotel spreading rumours. Shall we go over now?” As they walked up the stairs side by side, Rory took her hand and squeezed it gently. “Have I told you what a treasure you are Troy? The most sensible of women a man could ever hope for.” She kissed his cheek as they entered their room.  
“I imagine I’ll be the most frightful little ninny when it’s sunk in a bit. Is he sending a car?”  
“We can walk, it isn’t far. I didn’t know which you’d prefer so he’ll call back in half an hour if he hasn’t heard from us.” Alleyn checked himself briefly in the mirror, straightening his tie fastidiously and taking his hat with one hand. Troy dragged her hands hopefully through her hair once more, pocketed the cross word and pencil, and crammed her felt hat on her head. “Best be off then.” With a wink she added, “One man in his time plays _many_ parts.”  
Alleyn groaned.

***  
  


Despite her Shakespearean quips, Troy was far from sanguine in entering City South. She had entered only a couple police stations in her time, mostly to meet Rory and usually with the comforting bulk of Inspector Fox standing by to usher her to a familiar office. City South was sturdy, reputable, and as far from Alleyn’s office at Scotland Yard as could be imagined. The desk sergeant took one look at them, gulped, gestured vaguely at a seat, and bolted through a back door. “Charming” Troy muttered, pocketing her hat and looking around the business-like notices on the wall.  
“I always said Br’er Fox went to a finishing school” Alleyn joked, regarding the cluttered desks with a professional eye.  
“He’s the biggest teddy bear of the lot” Troy agreed, smiling weakly at the old joke. She was busily critically evaluating the sketch on a ‘wanted’ poster when the glass door to Jack’s office opened and four people came out. Rory, she was amused to note, adopted the professional posture which accompanied him to crime scenes but not to home.

“Inspector Alleyn! Troy!” A whirlwind of scent and excellent clothes detached itself from the group and led the charge towards the newcomers. “Not that I think Jack can’t handle it” Miss Fisher continued, tossing that gentleman a smile, “but Hugh would so like to see another professional at work. We don’t get a lot of visiting detectives, after all.” Troy would have been annoyed if she hadn’t been swallowing back laughter at this characteristically enthusiastic approach. Deprived of the fun of attempting to capture essence of Dimmock, essence of Miss Fisher might be a suitable alternative and diverting for both of them given the scope of previous modelling the other woman had done.

“Uh. Yes sir” Alleyn deployed his benevolent work-smile-to-junior-constables smile at the confused Collins. “Not that you aren’t great at murders, Sir” the poor man hastened to add. “Solving them I mean. Uh…”  
“You’d better come inside Sir, Mrs Alleyn.” Jack opened the door invitingly, “tea thanks Collins.”  
They went. Alleyn was pleased to note the other man’s professionalism remained intact, and wondered if he were perhaps a bit of a handful on matters of principle.

“I’m sorry for disturbing you” Robinson began generally, “as I said on the phone, Sir, Mrs Dimmock was found dead early this morning, and it looks suspicious. Preliminary autopsy results should be through very soon but I had hoped…”  
“Very sensible. Especially since you know we left shortly before you yourself did.” Alleyn agreed, “As did Dr MacMillan and Miss Lee, though of course you’ll need their own statements.” He glanced around briefly, “As soon as Constable Collins returns you can have my statement, of course.”  
Robinson sagged the smallest amount. “I appreciate it Sir.” He smiled weakly at Troy, “Mrs Alleyn.”  
Troy nodded, mind already cast back to the night before and whatever carry-on Mrs Dimmock had been up to.

“Tea Sir” Collins bustled – there was no other word for it – in with the tray, handing around mugs and looking to Jack for his next move.  
“Statements, Collins.”  
Collins gulped. “But Sir…”  
“Statements.” Alleyn agreed, smiling reassuringly. “Take Troy’s first, I promise we don’t bite.”  
So Collins retrieved his notebook and pencil, leant against the wall, and dutifully recorded Troy’s precise recollections of the evening.

“Thank you” Robinson smiled as they concluded. “I think that classifies as the perfect witness.”  
Troy flushed a little. “Observation is a useful skill in a painter”  
“Now Sir…” Robinson offered Alleyn a tentative smile. Alleyn’s statement was similarly detailed, though a lot shorter both due to his exact style and his relative lack of movement throughout the evening. “Thank you” Robinson said again, glancing over at Collins.  
“I’ll get these typed out Sir” Collins gasped out, departing for his typewriter with enough speed to make Miss Fisher’s scarf stir against her. Shortly thereafter, the couple signed their respective statements, handed them back, and were rewarded with another cup of tea and a first-hand view of the autopsy report being delivered.

“It was poison.” Jack told everyone, “Barbiturate. The amount that was in her, she can’t have taken it earlier than about midnight.” There was hope in his eyes as he looked over at Alleyn. “I don’t suppose I could interest you…?”  
Alleyn looked at Troy, one eyebrow raised. She pulled a face but nodded. “Try not to stay too long. We have tickets for the Mikado on Sunday.”  
“Oh!” Miss Fisher beamed, “You’ll enjoy the show. It’s very well done.” Her challenging gaze landed on Jack, “Quite the diversion.”  
“I’m glad to hear it” Alleyn returned, then smiled at Troy, “Don’t worry. I’ve ‘got a little list’.”  
“Hopeless” Troy smiled back. “I suppose I’ll let you get on with routine then.”  
“For goodness sake don’t stay about for that” Alleyn agreed, “it’s simply the dullest thing there is. Jack and I talked about Sherlock Holmes last night – you don’t catch him messing about with routine.” Jack laughed, standing as Alleyn and Troy did.  
“You needn’t go, Mrs Alleyn.”  
“Oh it’s alright” Troy nodded to the others, “I’ve a crossword to do and I think a watercolour or two to get on with as well. It will be good to know he’s occupied.”  
“Troy” Alleyn cried, as Phryne hid a smile and Hugh looked shocked. “You wouldn’t!”  
“I would” Troy confirmed. “And I think the first clue is quite a good one really” Pulling out the paper she read, “Mistake that puts school-children back.” Then she watched as Rory’s lips moved and his eyebrows furrowed. As soon as they cleared he shook his head fondly. “Impossible woman. We’ll keep an eye out for one. I’ll leave a message at the hotel by two.”

Collins, who had long since given up trying to follow the conversation, raced ahead to open the door once Troy started to move. “Have a good day Mrs Alleyn!” He called.  
“She really does prefer Miss Troy.” Alleyn remarked mildly, moving to the large map of Melbourne on the wall. Collins looked very confused. “I’m sorry Sir. I thought you were married…”  
“Oh we are” Alleyn confirmed cheerfully, “Very happily. But she still mostly uses her own name, and a fine name it is too.” Nodding pleasantly to Mrs Collins he added, “Whichever she prefers works for me.”  
“Oh absolutely Sir.” Hugh agreed, privately thinking things were a lot more complicated now than they had been before Inspector Robinson started working with Miss Fisher.

“Right!” Called that irrepressible woman, “I’m going to see Mac. Come along Jack. Dot, you and Collins may as well draw up a list of everyone that we need to talk with.”  
Hugh looked to Jack. “Carry on Collins. Line up interviews for this afternoon. Alleyn?”  
“Is it ghoulish to admit to wanting to see the body?” Alleyn inquired of Jack, giving Mrs Collins a courtly nod and holding the door to the others.  
“Not at all” Miss Fisher retorted, “Jack and I have half our conversations over dead bodies.”  
“Alas.” Alleyn smiled, “Troy prefers to model from life. Still, there you go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully it's not too obvious what has happened! It's interesting balancing the relatively simple whodunnit of MFMM and the more complex ones of Ngaio Marsh.
> 
> "He's a teddy bear" - Inspector Fox's first name is Theodore though nobody ever calls him that.
> 
> There are multiple Shakespeare and Gilbert and Sullivan quotes and I refuse to apologise for any of them. Patter songs are great fun, just ask Jack Robinson!


	5. Routine

“Mac mightn’t be in the best of moods” Miss Fisher informed Alleyn, twisting in her seat next to Jack.   
“I seem to recall Miss Lee mentioned the two of them were planning a walk today, something to do away from the exhibition reviews.” Alleyn replied, hoping nobody was about to get tiresome about pretending the two women were merely close friends.   
“Yes. Mac’s a keen outdoorswoman and Viv often accompanies her on the shorter adventures.”  
“We must hope Miss Lee forgives the murderer then.” He replied drily, “Or I’m afraid her trip to England next year will feature dinners _a deux_ and this mere policeman left to fend for himself. Unless I can convince Miss Lee that she needs an Inspector to accompany her, Jack.”  
Jack laughed, taking the turn into the morgue easily. “Might be nice to see some more of the old country. Though I saw a fair bit on leave you know. Biked all over the place, saw a lot of country lanes and tow paths.”   
“I think we can do a bit better than a bike for your next trip.” Alleyn assured him, “We’ll have to sit down over dinner with a map and you can show us where you went.” Jack smiled, surprisingly comfortable with the idea of telling Alleyn those stories. He had a calming effect on people; Jack would love to see him interrogating a suspect. Even Elsie would take it as an honour, and she normally had to be sober to get any sense out of.   
“Celebration dinner at Wardlow as soon as this case is solved.” Miss Fisher declared, hopping elegantly down from the car, “And you’re welcome to join as for our councils of war, Mr Alleyn.” She smiled up at him, “They normally involve a little something from Mr Butler’s excellent supply cupboard.”  
“For the good of the case, I could probably manage that.” Alleyn returned gravely, falling into step a little behind the two locals and wondering if Miss Fisher had chosen her day’s colours to match the Inspector’s. Though, Jack didn’t seem like the sort of man that would wear ties which paired with his coat lining very often. Smiling to himself, Alleyn silently shut the morgue door and nodded to Dr MacMillan.

“Mac!” Phryne displayed her usual forthrightness, red heels clattering as she led the charge to the covered body. “Was Viv very upset?”  
“She’ll live.” Mac retorted shortly. “Good Morning Jack, Inspector Alleyn.”   
“Good Morning.” Alleyn replied. _They are going to be tiresome_ he thought _what a bore._ “Hopefully Miss Lee will be able to see it in herself to accept dinner with us when she is over next year.” He added.   
Mac, a little mollified, grunted and flicked down the sheet. “You were quite right Jack. Poisoning. An even stronger dose than you might first think, too, I take it she’s been using it for a while.”  
“Could it have been accidental?” Jack stepped forward, running his pen under her fingers, watching them shift unnaturally.   
“I don’t think so. Even if she got very confused, she’d have to have re-taken a dose at least five times. Given how long she was probably taking it, I imagine she had a routine and was quite careful about it.”  
Phryne frowned. “How long do you think she’s been taking it, Mac? Do you think anyone else knew?”  
“I imagine her doctor knew, and her husband must have noticed. He’s not the sharpest tool in the shed but I estimate it’s been going on for nearly twenty years.”   
“Twenty _years_?” Jack looked up in surprise. “How do you figure that?”

“Her daughter” Alleyn said slowly, looking at Mac for confirmation.  
“You know your poisons, I see” Mac smiled, as to a particularly gifted student. “Her daughter is nineteen and has a hare lip. She might even be one of the reasons Mrs Dimmock started taking them in the first place.”   
“I had a case involving them quite recently” Alleyn apologised to the others. “But I’m sure Dr MacMillan knows far more about them than I. Our case was quite different – it was injected.”  
Phryne looked ready to ask some questions when Mac hastily interspersed with a short treatise on the uses and dangers of barbiturates as a way of treating the side-effects of pregnancy and child birth, and generally for calming down an over active mind. “But like I said” she concluded, “The amount she must have ingested to have died like this is a lot more than she would normally take. It probably was taken some time between midnight and one in the morning – a more exact time than I had for you earlier, Jack. That should remove most people automatically. The exhibition had pretty much emptied out by the time I left at half past eleven.”  
“We left at about quarter to twelve.” Phryne agreed with Mac, “And it was just the Dimmocks, Jill and Lucy, that poor Evans, and a couple from Bundoora. What’s your friend’s name, Jack?”  
“Blue.” Jack returned absently, squinting down at Mrs Dimmock’s substantial ankles. “Oh. Um. Bruce Russet.”   
“A doubly-earnt nickname.” Phryne noted. “Well, he was there. I suppose Dot will have all this down.”  
“Collins should have culled the list of guests by now.” Jack agreed. “Mac, what’s happened here?” There was something odd on the skirt, a spot where the colour didn’t quite match. With one finger he traced the discoloration, frowning. Threads had been pulled, but it didn’t look like the right height to be snagging on things, in the admittedly limited experience Jack had with women pulling threads on their long skirts.

Mac nudged him out of the way with one tweed-clad shoulder, the other two crowding in as close as they considered decent – Miss Fisher a lot closer than Alleyn. “Looks like something snagged on her skirt.” Mac grunted, “Nothing unusual there.”   
Jack didn’t look convinced, but as he couldn’t explain the feeling, he merely nodded and stood. “Anything else wrong with her?”  
“Nothing I could see. No underlying heart issues or anything.”  
“Good. Back to the station then. Miss Fisher, Alleyn.”  
“Thank you, Dr MacMillan.” Alleyn tipped his hat and smiled, opening the door for the others.   
“Yes. Good luck tonight Mac.” Miss Fisher was past Jack before he could say his own name. “I’ll drive us back!”  
Jack looked helplessly at Alleyn. “I suppose it’s too far to walk.” The taller man suggested.   
“It might be more trouble than it’s worth.” Jack agreed. “Still, we’ll be back in no time.” Alleyn smiled, and settled himself firmly in the back seat.

***

“Here’s that list you asked for Sir.” Collins beamed, jumping away from the telephone desk where he and Dot had been standing. In his eagerness he ended up leaping towards the two Inspectors, waving the paper like a flag.   
“Thank you Collins.” Jack frowned at the list. “What are all these dots?”  
“I marked off the ones the doorman or Inspector Alleyn or um…or his wife said had left before half past eleven.”  
“Good work Collins.” Collins grinned. Miss Fisher flashed his wife an appreciative smile; Dot demurely patted her hair.   
“Mr and Mrs Nicholas and Miss Lee all left round about that time.” Jack noted, “But I suppose we should confirm they were gone by quarter to twelve and officially rule them out. Then we just need to talk with the rest.”  
“I made appointments with them Sir.” Collins offered, “For half an hour’s time.” Defensively he added, “We didn’t know what time you’d finish at the morgue or who’d be driving back.”   
“Very good.” Jack glanced awkwardly at Alleyn. “Want to come along?”  
“No thanks. I’d just muddy the waters. Perhaps I could stay here and help Mrs and Constable Collins track the others down. If I know anything about nursing home matrons it could take a while to sweet talk her into getting two of her patients back here.”  
Miss Fisher chuckled, plucking the sheet out of Jacks hand. “Mr Alleyn. I have it on good authority that you are just the man for charming unruly dragons.”  
“Every man has his cross to bear” Alleyn smiled, “I find touching on the sourest points with sweetest terms tends to mollify the fieriest of dragons, or the grouchiest of matrons.”   
Miss Fisher’s quick glance at Jack was met with no more than the merest hint of a smile around his chiselled mouth, and she couldn’t ask in the middle of a police station how Alleyn knew about Antony and Cleopatra. He probably didn’t mean that at all. It was just a phrase. Apparently he and Jack had talked books the whole evening.  
“See you back here then. Collins, make sure all the other interviews are prepared, and if the commissioner calls tell him it’s too early to say anything definite yet.”  
“Yessir.”  
“I’ll go and get us all some lunch.” Mrs Collins calmly put on hat and coat and gathered up what appeared to be an empty biscuit tin.   
“That.” Jack said fervently, “Is an excellent idea. Come along Miss Fisher. We don’t want to be late for lunch!”

***

“This is a waste of time, Jack” Miss Fisher complained, “We know it wasn’t these people.”  
“This is police routine, Miss Fisher.” Jack retorted, opening the driver’s door and regarding her calmly, “Unless you’d prefer to leave the case?”  
“I actually think talking with the family again might be helpful. I know her daughter vaguely, perhaps she can be of use.”  
“Well then. Go and speak with her. I don’t think you’ll get much out of Mr Dimmock.” Jack tossed his hat into the passenger seat, wondering at the tension in the air.   
“Mr Alleyn isn’t the only one with charms.” Miss Fisher retorted.   
“Oh come on.” Blunt fingers curled against the smooth black paint under his hands, “You can’t possibly think I told him some half-finished story about a dress up party.”   
“I didn’t say anything of the sort.” Briefly, and entirely unconsciously, Phryne sucked nervously on her lower lip.   
“That’s nobody else’s business but ours.” Jack regarded her a little helplessly. “We just talked about our preferred plays, that’s all.” Sheepishly, mindfully releasing his grip on the door, he added, “Rosie always preferred the comedies, so don’t get silly ideas in your head.” As soon as she huffed a small smile he pressed advantage, “You can’t be expected to know everyone’s twenty-year-old secret. But you’re right about one thing; you’ll do much better talking with the family. See you for lunch?”   
“See you for lunch.” Settling her red hat more firmly on her hair, she added with a return to her usual fire, “I’ll probably beat you back.”  
“Not everything is a race to the finish, Miss Fisher.” He took the chance to drive off while she was still smiling and torn between intrigued and amused.

***

It was nearing dusk when Jack moved to the front of his office and cleared his throat. Alleyn, Miss Fisher, and Collins all looked up from the various notes and tasks. “I think we should wrap it up here tonight.” Jack began. “That’s enough routine for one day.”   
“But Jack-”   
“No Miss Fisher. Collins is due his night off, and we won’t get any new information tonight. But before we make any decisions, let’s go over the facts again.” For all his words, everybody knew that one man, at least, wouldn’t be leaving any time soon. Alleyn respected him the more for it; an officer’s first duty was to his men and the scant down-time for Constables should be properly safeguarded.

“Right. So we know the three of us, Miss Troy, Miss Lee, Dr MacMillan, and Mr and Mrs Nicholas all were the last wave of people who left too early to poison Mrs Dimmock. That leaves Evans, Jill and Lucy, Mr Dimmock, and, um, Blue.”  
“I’m sure he wouldn’t-” Miss Fisher began, but was silenced by a frown.   
“The other Digger apparently left earlier than we thought. He says he went to the pub with the first lot but the timings don’t quite work out. There’s a notorious spot just inside the gardens where the old guard does two-up” He paused and looked over at Alleyn, “It’s a Digger gambling game, illegal and very popular.”  
“I’ve seen it played.” Alleyn smiled thinly, “I imagine it’s impossible to police.”  
“Near enough.” Jack coughed awkwardly, “Sorry. I didn’t think English Officers would know…”  
“Commissioned by an accident of birth, I assure you.” Alleyn’s smile grew easier, “I picked up a bit of knowledge here and there. I was in France for three years, you know.”  
Jack shoved one hand in his pocket, nodding. Moving swiftly on from such unpleasant thoughts he continued. “Well. He won’t tell me that’s where he was but he wasn’t inside, so I think it’s a fair working assessment.”  
“I’ll ask Bert and Cec – my workmen, Mr Alleyn – to ask around. I’m sure they can find a school.”  
“Miss Fisher! I had no idea you played.”  
“I’ll have you know I was the finest cockatoo in Collingwood, Inspector Robinson.” Miss Fisher winked and sunk onto his desk, crossing her legs at the knee. “But that was a long time ago. I gamble at casinos now. _Legally_ Jack, not here, don’t look like that. Do carry on.”

“Right. Well. Blue’s statement is pretty straightforward, thought the whole thing was exploitation but at least they were getting some money out of it, he wants to get out of Bundoora so is keeping his nose extra clean, so he says. Can’t account for every minute but spent most of them in the main hall, usually with one of the young ladies. It’s not the oddest motivation we’ve had but it’s not great. There’s plenty of drugs hanging around the hospital of course, and it wouldn’t take him long to drop some into a glass.”  
Alleyn nodded, making a small mark in his pocket notebook. He wondered if Blue had the same sternly-checked disregard for human life so common in the young men who’d reached maturity in that inhuman time.

  
“Evans.” Jack frowned slightly, running a hand over his jaw and shaking his head a little.   
“A tricky customer” Alleyn agreed, “And just at that awkward age when they’re liable to do something silly for not much reason at all.”  
“I hope girls in Australia are more sensible than that, Inspector” Miss Fisher returned with her sweetest smile, “I’m sure she’s just a little upset at her employer being murdered and having to speak with a lot of strange men.”   
“Give us some credit Miss Fisher. Collins and I are capable of being a little better mannered than one of those Ballarat supervisors. It may surprise you to know we even made her a cup of tea.”   
Alleyn and Collins studiously applied themselves to inspecting the ceiling, clearly paying no attention to the short _contretemps_.  
“Just because you spent a year-”  
“ _Be that_ as it may” Jack cleared his throat and resumed his usual quiet tone, “By all accounts she hasn’t had a wonderful time of it with the Dimmocks, but she hasn’t been entirely mistreated either. More a case of neglecting the finer feelings than actively abusing the girl. She could be nurturing a hatred for her new employers and have taken this as a good opportunity to get away with it, it would have been easy enough for her to do. The tablets are easily available and she brought Mrs Dimmock a drink that evening. I’ve asked Mac to examine her tomorrow in case it was an accident and she gave Mrs Dimmock the glass she meant for Mr Dimmock, but there’s no evidence of anything like that, thank goodness.”  
“It pays to check” Alleyn agreed, nodding his approval from his spot near the map. Jack looked a little relieved.

Swinging her feet, apparently mollified that the men weren’t so much chauvinists as poorly expressing their concerns over other human beings, Miss Fisher nodded. “How about the other girls? Surely they don’t have as much reason as Evans?”

Jack shook his head, “Not so far as I can see. Lucy is a spitfire, like you’d expect from looking at, but she doesn’t seem malicious. If Mrs Dimmock had been hit over the head then I’d be more interested in Lucy. I can’t see any reason why she’d be upset with Mrs Dimmock other than a clash of personality. She was getting well paid, plenty of recognition, and it’s her first proper show. Before you get some idea, Miss Fisher, we asked about her parents, brothers, all that sort of thing. If there’s some tie between them and Mrs Dimmock it’s very well hidden.” Collins smiled sheepishly, having done a lot of the initial looking for that same tie.

“Alleyn is going to remind us that it’s normally the husband.” Jack continued, smiling over at Alleyn.  
Alleyn smiled back, “Clichés exist for a reason, as I’m sure you know.”  
“Well in this case it wouldn’t surprise me. It doesn’t sound like a particularly happy marriage, and he’s as twitchy as they come. Miss Fisher spent some time talking with their only child, and it sounds like they haven’t been happy for some time. Miss Fisher?”  
“Yes when I talked with Isobel she said her mother dominated the household. She hadn’t spoken with her father for some time, not in the last month. Mrs Dimmock always visited Isobel and said her husband was busy at work…I gathered that while she enjoyed being able to say he worked at Parliament she had no desire to move to Canberra.”  
“A clerk should have no difficulty getting a job.” Alleyn observed.  
“Exactly. Isobel thought he’d been looking around, but had no idea where or what else he’d been up to.” Defiantly, Miss Fisher added, “She didn’t think he’d been having an affair, but since she hadn’t spoken with him for so long…”  
“Speaking as a woman, Miss Fisher, can you imagine someone taking that risk for him?”  
“I suppose there are some maternal women out there who might be interested.” Miss Fisher sounded doubtful, “Just because I like men who can fight back doesn’t mean we all do, Jack.” Returning to the case she concluded, “Plenty of information about what sort of man he is but overall Isobel is more concerned about her baby than anything. Well, and the death of her Mother of course. I don’t think she has an idea who has done it though.”  
“Well at least you tried” Jack replied, flush receding, “You know, he’s an unpleasant sort of witness. Plenty of wriggling and mumbling…a bit of a wrong ‘un and not just because he looks a bit like a stunned mullet. It’s nothing definite but I think he’s one of the quiet ones. He said he’d been looking forward to getting the place to himself when Mrs Dimmock went to her daughter for the grandbaby, and sounds like he has a new job lined up too. I…” Jack frowned a bit, unusually unable to explain how he felt.

“He’s a hard man to warm to.” Alleyn agreed, “He struck me as being quite desperate to get some control over his life again, when we spoke the other night. I could see him using poison as well, it’s more usually a woman’s method but it suits him.”  
“That’s right” Jack rallied, “He was sort of all over the place this afternoon. Upset one minute and quite happy the next. What was that thing he said, Collins?”  
Collins flicked seriously through his notebook. “About the raisins, Sir?” Swallowing his tongue back inside his own mouth he opened the correct page with a slight flourish. Alleyn had an amused image of Fox being similarly deliberate at the same age and had a sudden urge to look up old Hendon class photographs to see whether he’d had those frown lines even back then. Collins interrupted this amusing image before Alleyn could betray himself with laughter.   
“It’s good she’s gone, she was always so stingy. A man should be able to have raisins in his own home. Juice too. She never let me to the train station.” Collins frowned over the last comment, then added, “I guess he meant that new juice bar down under the clock. It’s quite good, Sir. Very fresh.”   
“I think that’s the point.” But Jack smiled in approval, “It seemed an odd thing for a man to say unless he’d been brooding on things. You know as well as me there’s heaps of odd things people say, but not something that detailed. Not unless they’ve been thinking about it. I think we’ll call him and Evans in again tomorrow.”

“How about Jill?”  
“Again, not much opportunity. She was mostly with Lucy or Blue. Her father was actually at Bundoora, but he made it back to live at home. That might be a motive.”  
“Have you talked with him?” Miss Fisher was leaning forward now, eager.  
“Not yet. He wasn’t at home, he’s due back tomorrow afternoon, probably quite late. There’s a group from the HCC gone up to Warrnambool tonight to ride back tomorrow. I checked with the club and he’s definitely on the trip.”   
“Oh Jack, you should have joined him.”  
“I don’t think my shorthand is quite up to being used while biking, Miss Fisher.” Collins looked vaguely shocked at the idea of his boss writing up his own notes. “Nor do the good gents of the HCC want a chap like me joining in on a beat up old BSA. Still, we’ll be round there as well tomorrow. It’s possible there’s some connection, otherwise there’s no real motive. Perhaps Mrs Dimmock visited Bundoora when Mr Beauchamp was a patient there and maybe something happened. I did request his notes when the matron was here, so that could be of use too.”

“If this was a book” Alleyn said drily, “You’d know Mr Beauchamp and could tell us he escaped from a PoW Camp using nothing more than liberally applied barbiturates and the paintbrushes his daughter used to paint the thing Mrs Dimmock sneered at last night in front of a rich sponsor.”  
They all laughed, both at his words and his facial expression.   
“Alas. Nothing so exciting I’m afraid.” Jack grinned, “I’ll have you deduce what I was doing instead over this celebration dinner we’re supposed to be earning, Mr Holmes.”  
“I look forward to it. And the meal too.” Alleyn nodded to Miss Fisher. “But what you’re saying is there’s a plethora of motives, and quite the list of perpetrators.”  
“Exactly.” Jack looked ready to say more before noting the time and stretching. “You’d better head off, Collins.”

  
“Oh drat” Miss Fisher slithered to her feet, “I had too. Aunt P signed me up to drinks tonight. Can I give you a lift back to The Windsor, Mr Alleyn?”  
“Thank you, no. There’s a couple points I’d like to discuss with Jack, the better to show off our professional abilities in the morning, you know.”   
“As you like. Come along Hugh, I’ll drop you home. Don’t work too late, Jack.” Waving her fingers characteristically, she swept out.  
“Go on Collins. I’ll see you tomorrow. Thank Mrs Collins for lunch.”  
“Yessir. Night Sir, Mr Alleyn Sir.”  
“Night Collins.” Alleyn shut the door after them then turned slowly to meet his colleague’s gaze. “I wondered if it might be useful for me to go to Bundoora in the morning. I can pick up the file and follow up any questions we have for Blue without having to involve you. I don’t imagine it’s particularly fun having to take apart the statement of a chap you were in the war with.” When Jack looked interested, Alleyn continued, “It’s not that I doubt you, it just sounds beastly. Well, I know it’s a pretty squalid feeling. Also I agree that file could be important. More likely than not it isn’t, but it could pin the thing squarely on Jill. So we shouldn’t leave it to the post.”  
“You wouldn’t mind?”  
“If it’s important, I’ll ring up my Chief Super and get officially assigned here to make it admissible.”  
Jack breathed a sigh of relief. “I hope it isn’t either of them. I don’t think it is Blue, he seems ready to go out in the world; I can’t see him throwing that away. I really don’t want a teenager’s hanging on my conscience, but I need to find whoever did this.”  
“It’s always struck me as particularly gruesome. Getting our man is satisfying, but the bit that comes after is quite distasteful.” Alleyn’s brows drew together. “Quite distasteful.”  
“Yet we carry on.” Jack blew out a breath. “See you in the morning?”  
“In the morning.” Dropping the serious look, Alleyn opened the door and buttoned his coat. “Hooroo.”  
“Hoo roo.” Jack grinned, “Have a good evening.”  
  


***

Alleyn returned to the hotel to be told Mrs Alleyn was out, took the key, decided Troy had gone for dinner judging by the clothes in her wardrobe, freshened himself up, and returned downstairs to order his own meal. There were plenty of interesting people to watch, and the evening paper was also available, so there was no chance of having to rush the delicious meal. In point of fact he was pondering the couple three tables over and waiting for his pineapple upside down cake when Troy came in, spotted him instantly, and ordered a digestif. Re-seating himself, Alleyn smiled warmly. “How was dinner? They do a very nice pie here.”  
“They do very nice fish and chips down at the beach.” Calmly helping herself to his cake and accepting her drink with a brief smile at the waiter, she continued, “Will you be working again tomorrow?”  
“Not all day, unless I’m helplessly underestimating the criminal class of Melbourne.”  
“Good. I don’t want to go alone to the theatre and I think even you would appreciate the bathing here.”   
“I have been known to bathe in public.” Alleyn retorted, entirely without malice and with only some truth. “If you truly think the Australian public will accept a long pasty Englisher in the middle of their bathing grounds then I shall struggle into my best knitted shorts and join you in a splash. However I have ended up with one interview to do in the morning and I would quite like to spend some time at the station. The list is narrowing fast, and if I’m right there’ll be little trouble getting the fellow who did it singing like a bird in plenty of time for some singing school-girls.”   
“You wouldn’t be pasty if you went swimming more often.” Troy teased, allowing him a bite of his pudding. “Shall I tell you about my day?”  
“I wish you would. Give me more of a chance with this pineapple.”  
Troy shot him a filthy glare and settled in to tell him all about her adventure on the tram and the nice young man who had carried her easel for her.

  
“You didn’t used to like nice young men carrying your easel.” Alleyn observed mildly, relinquishing any hope of the remains of his dinner.   
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” His wife calmly replied, “If you’re talking about impertinent little squirts who thrust work in front of me for my ‘feelings’ then I still don’t like them. If you’re talking about impertinent men who run away from American actresses and make well-meaning and entirely uninvited observations about the reflection of water then in general I’m not too fond of them either, though I will allow” she added, “that in specific circumstances they can be quite charming.”  
“Only quite? I must be losing my touch.”  
“You know as well as I do that you have an obscene amount of charm and the fact that no woman had tied herself to you earlier is a matter of extreme concern to me. I assume you have kept some terrible aspect of yourself well hidden.”  
“Indeed I have not. Most women see their man running off after criminals and assume that love is dead.”  
“Oh I can think of nothing worse than having you underfoot all the time.” Troy grinned, nudging his knee with hers.  
“The very ecstasy of love.” Rory returned drily, sipping his drink. “Still, routine must be nearly over and then you’ll have me back again.”   
“I shall leave your shorts out for you.” Troy returned gravely, “In any case I shall expect you at the theatre.”   
“Admirable woman! And you haven’t told me if the nice young man was the person you had dinner with.”   
“All that talk of Sherlock Holmes has gone to your head. I had dinner alone, perched in a wee nook down by the pier. Well, alone aside from the seagulls.”   
Rory chuckled. “That’s taken me down a peg or two! Well. I’ve finished and I think you have too; how about we continue this upstairs?”  
“I thought you’d never be done. Come along up.”

***

“Really Phryne” Aunt Prudence chided, once her guests had gone for the evening and she was standing with her niece at the front door, “I don’t see why you have to go rushing off into all these murders. Especially Mrs Dimmock.”  
“What do you mean, especially Mrs Dimmock?”  
“Well. I thought you said it was barbiturate poisoning.” Prudence hastily snatched up Phryne’s things. “That’s easily done, surely. It was probably an accident.”  
“Aunt Prudence!” Ignoring her hat and overcoat, Phryne beamed at her Aunt. “You knew! You _knew_ she was addicted to those pills.”  
“What nonsense. I barely knew the woman. Really, Phryne, you shouldn’t go around accusing people of things.”  
Phryne, irrepressible and amused, shook her head. “I’m not accusing her of anything Mac hasn’t already proved with her excellent skills. Come now Aunt P, what do you know?” Eyeing Prudence cannily, Phryne wheedled, “Don’t you want to see whoever murdered her put away?”

“Oh very well.” Prudence took a look around as though checking some guests had snuck back in, then laughed at herself and nodded briefly. “She didn’t have an easy pregnancy.” When Phryne opened her mouth, Prudence glowered, “No. You haven’t had a child, you don’t fully understand. She didn’t have an easy birth either, and the baby was fractious, especially after that operation on her face. So I am sure there was a lot of the medicine about. I never really spent that much time with her, as you know, but people talked. Oh, you wouldn’t remember, there was a lot of that sort of thing going on. This would have been about the time of that awful woman pouring acid down her children’s throats – everybody was interested in poisons and what dangerous things hung around the home.” Uncharacteristically, Prudence appealed to Phryne’s own knowledge of human fallibility, “And poor Mrs Dimmock would have had to join in, no matter what she had become addicted to. I’m sure she tried many times to give up, but you know what people in pain are like with the wrong painkillers. I’m sure you saw it as a nurse.”  
“I did.” Phryne agreed grimly. Some of the men at the clearing stations had been there a while, and some had been kept subdued or operated on more than once.

  
“The human body normally repairs itself, and I’m sure there were times she barely used it at all, but with her husband away and then coming back quite the awkward case and I think for all her busyness she is really very lonely. Someone said – though you know I don’t repeat gossip – someone said it was only this pregnancy that made her daughter start visiting again.”   
It was only the seriousness of the conversation that held Phryne back from a comment about gossip. Gravely, she took her hat and prepared to leave. “You’re an angel, Aunt P, and full of knowledge. Tonight was marvellous, as always. Make sure you get to the exhibition, too, you’ll love it. I’m thinking of asking Troy if she can do something for my sitting room. You needn’t worry! She only paints things she can show to her mother-in-law, she told me so herself.” Thankfully Prudence had yet to come across the cunning wit and ongoing amusement that was Lady Alleyn, so took the statement at face value.   
“I shall look forward to it. Now go along. There’s no point in standing here asking me what I know of Mrs Dimmock and who’d want to hurt her because I simply don’t know. I suppose” Prudence added glumly, “It will be her charity girl or her drip of a husband, though I can’t see him having the gumption to do it. It always seems to be someone in the family.”  
“Oh cheer up Aunt Prudence. After all, I haven’t tried to kill you yet!”  
“That’s because I don’t let you drive me anywhere.” Prudence smiled, holding the door open. “Thank you again Phryne, dear, you were lovely tonight.”  
“So was the party. Bye Aunt P.” With a purr of well-tended engine, Phryne sailed off. Prudence shut the door slowly, shaking her head at the folly of mankind then briskly taking herself upstairs for a hot toddy and a quiet read of her latest book.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Collins is due his night off" - Scratch_pad's [Money Meta](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17486885/chapters/41185127) is an amazing resource which in this particular instance gave me an actual tangible link to the newspaper article detailing the working conditions of Victoria Police. They weren't great. Money Meta, on the other hand, is excellent and is a) full of awesome detail and b) contains about a thousand healthy plot bunnies. Thank you!
> 
> "that new juice bar down under the clock" - Flinders St Station ('under the clock') gained a fresh juice bar in 1926 (probably the first fresh fruit bar in Australia). This was a cunning plan which not only increased sales for farmers but increased demand for freight as well.
> 
> HCC - Hawthorn Cycle Club  
> Warrnambool - the starting point of the second oldest one-day cycling event. It doesn't appear unusual for clubs to just go and ride the distance at other times.  
> BSA - [Birmingham Small Arms Company](https://bsamuseum.wordpress.com/the-military-roadster/). They made the [bikes used](https://www.awm.gov.au/articles/blog/the-bicycle-in-warfare) by the ANZACs in WW1 (there are some charming photos in the article). Jack de-mobbed with his Mk IV which is perfectly serviceable and a good stand in until he can buy the top-notch racing model he desires. 
> 
> The 'awful woman' Prudence refers to is [Martha Rendell](https://policewahistory.org.au/HTML_Pages/Child_Murders.html), who killed three of her step children by repeatedly swabbing their throats with hydrochloric acid. She was hanged in October 1909 and 'because of the unique aspects of this case' London CID received the full report.
> 
> Bonus points (and a story written just for you) for whoever spots the Shakespeare quotes in each chapter. I'm having a lot of fun re-reading Jack and Alleyn's favourite plays.


	6. Reframing

Mrs Hugh Collins regarded her husband with a stern eye. “You haven’t explained the case to me Hugh.”  
Her husband, mostly dressed but with an old shirt thrown on instead of his uniform one (in case of runny egg yolks), didn’t even attempt to look stern. “You didn’t give me a chance to last night, Dottie.” Hopefully holding out his plate he added, “I’ll do it now though?” This seemed to do the trick, and he set to buttering his toast for soldiers. “Well. There’s Inspector Robinson’s mate Blue, Evans, Mr Dimmock, Miss Beauchamp and Miss McGinty. The Inspector and Chief Detective Inspector Alleyn both think Mr Russet’s mate – Mr Samuels – had nothing to do with it. Inspector Robinson says he was playing two-up and doesn’t even think he was around when the poison was administered.”  
Mrs Collins smiled warmly at the love of her life, the better to hide her amusement at his slide from Hugh to Constable Collins. Pouring out some more tea she settled in to listen. “Go on, Hugh.”  
“So Mr Russet could have done it. There’s barbiturates at the hospital and it wouldn’t have been hard to give her a drink, and he did give her a drink at some stage but nobody can remember exactly when. Inspector Alleyn says he might have done it out of frustration but Inspector Robinson says he’s too keen to get out to mess anything up now.” Seizing a brief respite while his wife considered this, he hastily consumed three eggy soldiers in quick succession. Sundays were a time for them to start the day restfully, though he still worked and Dot always ended up with duties at church.

“It seems a bit silly really.” Dot agreed with Inspector Robinson, “What about the artists?”  
“Miss McGinty is out. No real motive or opportunity. Miss Beauchamp could have, though nobody knows how she’d have got the stuff. Her Dad was at Bundoora so there might be a link there, but he isn’t due back till late tonight so we have to wait to talk with him.” Finishing the last of his egg he added a little indistinctly, “He’s on a biking trip. All day, Inspector Robinson says.”  
“I’m glad you don’t go in for that sort of thing” Dot returned primly, evenly spreading Parwill on her toast. She wanted to try this new product before giving it to the Sunday School children for their tea.  
“Boxing’s more my style.” Hugh agreed. “So that leaves Evans or Mr Dimmock. He’s an oddball, Dottie, make no mistake. They sleep in separate rooms, to start with. Then he didn’t call a doctor, which is just…well. It’s odd. He had lots of plans for what to do when Mrs Dimmock was gone. He _said_ he’d been planning for when she was gone to their daughter’s but it doesn’t sound right, does it? And a lot of things came out when we were interviewing him, things the Inspector reckons come from him pondering stuff. Or he could have been unfaithful.”  
“It sounds like you’ve decided it’s him.” Dot pointed out, deciding that Parwill was perfectly acceptable instead of Marmite, and the children could enjoy their healthy lunch in peace.  
Hugh shrugged, disinterested in these minor discoveries of home life. “Not really. There’s still Mr McGinty to talk with and wait till I tell you about Evans. Mac’s going to, umm…” Hugh, having talked himself into a corner, flushed furiously and attempted to stumble out of it. “Examine her. Umm. In case she had it in for Mr Dimmock. Or Mrs Dimmock might’ve been her idea all along, sounds like she isn’t the nicest employer. Wasn’t. Sorry Dottie.”

  
Dottie let Hugh take her hand down from her collar, smiling briefly. “It’s alright Hugh. I was just surprised.” When Hugh didn’t look convinced, she kissed his hand and smiled again, “Go on.”  
“There isn’t much more. She could be that sick of it she decided to do something. It’s hard to say. So that’s today’s job.”  
“Well, that sounds like a busy day.” Dot stood, collecting up the empty plates and quickly disposing of the scraps for her chooks. “So I suppose you’d like some lunch. Go and get ready, I’ll pack something for you.”  
Hugh grinned, scrambling off to get ready. When he returned, presenting himself for inspection – the mirror was small and even standing in their little hallway he couldn’t see much of himself – she had a lunch all packed in his satchel. “I’ll make some shortbread this afternoon.” She promised, “Something new for next week.”  
“I like everything you make.” Hugh returned, truthfully and astutely. When Dot finished chuckling, he gently cupped her cheek, holding her gaze and pausing for a moment in their ritual whenever either of them left for work. “I love you.”  
“And I you.” Dottie returned, pecking his lips, “Have a good day.”  
Grabbing up his bag, Hugh trotted out, waving from the gate before disappearing. Satisfied they had parted properly, Dot hastened to prepare for the day.

***

“I hope you haven’t been here all night, Jack.” Miss Fisher breezed in with hamper and a tin that released the scent of lavender and rose apparently despite itself.  
“I managed to sneak away.” Jack replied, “Which you would know if you came away from that terrifying tower of supplies and into my office. What are you doing with them anyway, moving in?”  
“Mr Butler heard Mr Alleyn was here and didn’t want him to think we mere antipodeans didn’t respect the might of CID.”  
“Did Mr Butler perhaps include some more biscuits? Mine seem to have gone missing.”  
“I don’t know if men who sit behind desks all day instead of joining in club cycle races are allowed biscuits.” Miss Fisher teased, handing over a tin and laughing when he mimed dropping it. “Citrus loaf. Apparently the feijoas will make an appearance tonight.”  
“Mr Butler _is_ pulling out all the stops. I don’t suppose he made any marmalade with the rest of the fruit?”  
“My my Jack. So eager. You’ll have to come and ask for yourself.” Placing the rest of her goods by the bookshelf, she added, “When does Cathy Evans arrive?”  
“Collins is going around to get her and Mr Dimmock now. Mills is due back with Beauchamp very soon.”  
“That’s a good idea.”  
“I thought so. I checked his times last night and we could be waiting for a very long time before he got back. I didn’t expect an Oppy, but there are limits.”  
Miss Fisher smiled, “And Alleyn?”  
“He’s at Bundoora getting the file on Beauchamp.”  
“And questioning Blue.”  
“Yes.” Jack pursed his lips, then straightened again. “It seemed best.”  
Miss Fisher regarded him closely for a moment, then smiled and stepped close. “You’re right. I should have noticed a tie like this as soon as I came in. It’s new isn’t it?” She smoothed it carefully, holding his gaze, reassuring. Gentle.  
“Quite old actually.” He quirked an eyebrow, “I heard dessert tonight was worth dressing up for.”  
“Jack! So excited!” She grinned, impish, “Perhaps it’s worth dressing down for.”  
With predictable poor timing, the station door jerked open and Evans, Mr Dimmock, and Collins came into the building. “Think about it” Miss Fisher finished, pecking his cheek and standing back to admire his form as Detective Inspector Robinson marshalled the suspects for interrogation.

***

“Thank you, Mr Russet.” Alleyn stood, nodding cordially at the Digger.  
“S’okay.” Following Alleyn towards the door of the sunny reading room, Blue paused, struck with something. “Here. Sprat isn’t avoiding me on purpose is he?”  
“Only for mutual benefit, I’m sure.” Alleyn assured him, then when those gingery eyebrows drew together, “Nobody really thinks you did it, but we need to be sure. I think Inspector Robinson would prefer to keep your personal friendship intact, untainted by this case.”  
Blue considered this, rubbing his left bicep with nervous fingers, then nodding. “Alright. He’s a decent bloke, y’know? Known him long?”  
“Not very long.” Alleyn regarded the other man with renewed interest. “He’s very good at his job. I shouldn’t worry about this hanging over your plans to leave here.”  
“I’m not.” Blue lied, immediately relaxing, “Though it’d be bloody awkward to be locked up, pardon the expression.”  
“You were PoWs together.” Alleyn assessed, jumping smoothly between information in Blue’s personnel file and hints Jack had left along the way.  
“Last few months.” Again, Blue rubbed his bicep, “Lucky he had a bit of German already, we picked up enough hearing it all the time. Kept us out of the worst of the trouble.”  
“I can imagine that would be a useful skill.” Turning back to the window, Alleyn cleared his throat, “I don’t suppose you were with Mr Beauchamp at all?”  
“Only saw him here for a bit. He wasn’t here for very long, has his family to get back to and all. I don’t think he was quite as all there as he told them but he’s not dangerous. I mean, he wouldn’t go off and do this.”  
Again, Alleyn wondered at the impossibility of people swearing ex-soldiers were no killers. There was something that happened to the mind once you trained it to understand various actions resulted in the loss of another’s life. The slow moral decay, the knowledge that everything had to come from somewhere; some ruthlessness inside himself.  
“Thank you, Mr Russet.” He said again. “I think I shall pick up his file now.”  
“Too easy Mr Alleyn.” Blue paused, “Actually. Could I give you something to take to Sprat?”  
“Of course. I shall be with matron.”  
“Rather you than me.” Blue vanished down a corridor, leaving Alleyn to return to the dragon’s lair.

He left triumphant half an hour later, bearing both file and a package wrapped neatly in butcher’s paper for Jack.

***

Collins watched Miss Fisher and Inspector Robinson file in to interview Miss Evans. Away from the Dimmocks she looked a little less ready to jump out of her skin, but she didn’t look up to any heavy questioning.  
“Cathy Evans.” Miss Fisher smiled, leaning forward, “You knew Mrs Dimmock well, didn’t you?”  
“Pretty well, yes Miss.” Evans’ interrogator mentally noted that Cathy would need to learn to stop nervously licking her lips – it had made them uncomfortably cracked and red.  
“I thought so. How did she seem when she was getting ready for bed?”  
“Pretty normal Miss. I told the Inspector that.”  
“You did, Miss Evans.” Jack nodded reassuringly, hoping he wasn’t going to have to see a teenager hanged. “We just want to be clear. Did she seem well?”  
“Well…not quite Sir. I mean, yes, but she had one of her heads ‘cause she got me to get her some water. It can’t have been that bad though since she didn’t even take the glass.”  
“She didn’t?”  
“No Miss. Normally she takes it right away and then I’m to go as soon as she’s touched it. She says it’s vulgar to wait and watch someone else drinking. Said it was like a dog waiting for scraps. I didn’t watch her drink it though.”  
Jack pondered this. “Miss Evans, do you recall what Mrs Dimmock was wearing?”  
Evans screwed up her spotty face, pondering. “Everything she wore out, Sir, but her shoes and stockings. And her jewels of course. She takes those off as soon as she gets into her room, says it’s vulgar to be that dressed up at home. Like sitting around in a fashion plate.”  
“Mrs Dimmock seems to be a lady with very set ideas.” Jack nodded, giving Phryne a signature raised eyebrow.  
“Some women are like that.” His partner agreed, neutrally.

Collins continued to make notes. Jack and Phryne continued to ask questions. Evans was staunch in her denial of blame. Eventually Jack stood. “Thank you Miss Evans. Please wait next door. Show her out, Collins. We’ll take Mr Dimmock next.”  
“Yes Sir.” Collins returned without Mr Dimmock before Jack could even begin articulating his thoughts to Miss Fisher. “Um Sir, Mills is back. Do you want Mr Dimmock or Mr Beauchamp?”  
“Mr Dimmock. There’s no point talking with Mr Beauchamp until we’ve read the file Mr Alleyn’s bringing back.”  
With the good timing that normally marks a hero in a cheap novel, Alleyn chose that moment to pull up outside the station, which happy coincident brought Collins back into Interrogation without a suspect. “Mr Alleyn says you should read the file Sir.”

“That’s not quite how I worded it” Alleyn smiled, following Collins down the corridor. “Miss Fisher, Good Morning. Apologies, Jack, but I think you’d do well to read the file and finish with Mr Beauchamp.” He seemed unsurprised when Miss Fisher was the one to take the file. With increasing speed, she turned over the pages and compared dates.  
“He was out before Mrs Dimmock got involved. He’s been out for years.”  
“There’s nothing here.” Jack agreed, looking almost relieved. “Thank you Alleyn. Alright Collins. Give us five minutes and bring in Mr Beauchamp.” With a brief look, Jack retrieved the file and considered a few points that would be of use to bring up in interrogation. It wouldn’t be the most prepared of interviews, but it would work.

***

“I told Mr Russet you knew it wasn’t him.” Alleyn said as soon as Jack returned to his office for a momentary break before questioning Mr Dimmock.  
“I didn’t tell you I knew that.”  
“But you do.” Alleyn smiled, “She had to have been poisoned when she got home, or her stocking would have been damaged when she ripped her skirt. You just hadn’t articulated it to yourself yet.” He added, when Jack looked bemused. “Otherwise why would you have drawn attention to it?”  
“I don’t know why you thought you’d be anything other than a policeman.” Jack grumbled, then grinned, “Thank you. That narrows it down to Evans or the husband. My money’s on him.”  
“Me too. I’m glad Dr MacMillan’s examination brought only good news.”  
“Yeah.”  
“Oh and Mr Russet sent you this.” Alleyn pulled out the thick envelope, “He, ah, said they were souvenirs.”  
“Cheers. I’ll drop him a line when this is all over.”  
“Stout fellow. Get on with Mr Dimmock then hm?”  
“You’re joining in.” Announced Jack, “Let’s get going.” Courteously he held the door open for the older man, watching Alleyn take up position against the far wall before placing himself by Miss Fisher.

***

As Mr Dimmock was led to the cells, sobbing pathetically, Miss Fisher stood. “I have something for Cathy. I didn’t think she’d done it.” Jack and Alleyn shared a smile, watching her go.  
  


“Miss Evans.” Cathy sniffed, wiping a blotchy hand across her spotty face, nodding and standing to speak in a very subdued voice. “Yes Miss.” She sounded very blocked up and Miss Fisher instantly spirited her into the Inspector’s office.  
“You’re free to go. But first I’d like you to take this. I think the creams will help your skin, and there’s an address in there for you to apply for work through as well. Somewhere a little nicer than the Dimmocks, I think.”  
The poor girl looked like all her Christmasses had come at once – from what Miss Fisher knew about state homes that was probably no exaggeration, Phryne thought. “Oh _thank you_ Miss.”  
“You’re most welcome. Here, let me show you.”

When Jack went in moments later to retrieve some lunch and rescue Alleyn’s coat, he found Miss Evans perched on his chair, facing the window, while Miss Fisher crouched in front of her gently daubing a clean-smelling paste on her skin.  
“Another of your waifs Miss Fisher? Where will you keep them all?”  
“Jack!” Phryne barely looked up, “Miss Evans was an _excellent_ witness. I’m merely showing her a few bits and bobs ladies need to know in this hard, modern, world. I’m sure she’ll put them to good use to secure a new job with the Women’s Employment Agency.”  
“Do you by any chance run this Agency?”  
“Don’t be silly Jack.” Satisfied with her work, Miss Fisher handed Cathy the box of goodies, smiling at her and tucking some hair behind her ear, “A chignon is always smart, Miss Evans, but rolls are practical for every day wear.” Returning to Jack, she added, “Miss Lee is the proprietess.”  
“Well then, Miss Evans, it sounds as though you’re in good hands.” Jack smiled, holding the door open, “Thank you for your cooperation; please keep us up to date with your new address.”  
“Thank you Sir. Yes I will. Thank _you_ Miss.”  
“You’re most welcome, Miss Evans. Good luck.”

“One more satisfied customer.” Alleyn approved, retrieving his own coat and hat, “I must run I’m afraid, _Mikado_ starts in twenty minutes and I shan’t live it down if I’m late.”  
“We’ll meet you at the Windsor after.” Phryne beamed, “The men will have finished here so we’ll celebrate with a run out to St Kilda, work up some appetite for dinner.”  
Alleyn regarded her with the cold glare of suspicion. “You’ve been talking with Troy!” He accused.  
“Well, it’s sort of my fault she’s here” Phryne countered, batting her lashes.  
“Very well.” Alleyn sighed a very fake sigh, “If it’s not miraculously started raining we shall be waiting outside the Windsor for our dip as soon as _Mikado_ is over.”  
“It’s easier just to go along with it.” Jack approved. “See you later, Alleyn.”  
“Good luck, Jack. Bye Miss Fisher, Collins.” Alleyn’s long legs strode unerringly towards the theatre; he dropped into his seat just as the doors were closing.

“Let me guess.” Troy murmured, “You nearly didn’t make it because he took a long time to break.”  
“Something like that. Got ‘im though, and we’re all going for a swim at St Kilda’s after this.”  
“Excellent. Maybe we’ll get a bit of a holiday after all.”  
Alleyn, spared from a reply by the overture, took her hand and chuckled at the unbridled optimism.

***

Troy watched the three men obediently disappear down to the edge of the water, then turned to Miss Fisher. “How did you do it?”  
“I told Jack we were going swimming.”  
Troy laughed, “I meant how did you solve the case.”  
“Oh.” With an elegant gesture, she led the other two to sit on the sand.

Hugh, initially shy in such august company, had been quickly set at ease with a request from Alleyn to demonstrate the ‘real Australian crawl’, and the athletic view was an excellent distraction for all three.

“Mac narrowed the time down, and the men did a good job of deducing she must have taken it at home.” Phryne broke off to smile at Troy, “Mr Alleyn knows his clothes well. She’d tumbled against her dresser, you see, and ripped her skirt. If she’d been wearing stockings they would have been ripped too, so she must have done that at home.”  
“Mr Alleyn” Said Troy drily, “Has made quite the study of women’s clothes. Top of his class, so he likes to inform me.”  
Her companions giggled, though Dot was a little shocked. “That narrowed it down to Cathy Evans or Mr Dimmock. Once we knew that she was already behaving strangely when Cathy dropped off her water, and that Mr Dimmock had dreams of doing what he wanted without having to follow his wife’s considerable demands, it was pretty easy to lean on him.”  
“But what about Mr Beauchamp?” Dot inquired, grinning as Hugh attempted to emulate a one-handed hand stand.  
“Constable Mills picked him up this morning and we asked him some questions, but Mr Alleyn also confirmed with Matron – and with his file, which he somehow wheedled out of her – that Mrs Dimmock hadn’t been involved in Bundoora when Mr Beauchamp was there.”  
“And because you knew he was poisoned at home it couldn’t be Jill or Lucy or Blue.” Troy added.  
“Yes. And there was no real motive for the girls without that link with Jill. Blue might be a bit worse off for being in a prisoner of war camp but he didn’t poison her no matter how much he isn’t sure about the exhibition. I’m sorry, Troy.” She added, hastily.  
“It’s alright. I knew not everybody would be pleased. Rory talked some sense in to me the other night, actually.”  
“He’s a lovely man.” Miss Fisher beamed, “I don’t suppose you’d consider moving out here?”  
“I’m afraid not. His Mother is still in England and with his brother out here too – in Fiji you know – it’s a little difficult.” Troy smiled warmly, “But I hope we’ll all stay in touch.”  
“Absolutely.” Miss Fisher beamed back, “Now. I think that sums everything up. Jealous, henpecked, husband, overbearing, drug-addicted wife. He’s locked up, their daughter is surrounded by loving in-laws. Shall we ingratiate ourselves with the men? How’s that new costume, Dot?”

Dot blushed, hard, wrapping her robe around herself further.  
“I’m game if you are, Dot.” Troy smiled warmly, standing and shedding her own robe, “Especially as I know there’ll be a warming dinner waiting when we get back to Wardlow.”  
“Right you are!” Miss Fisher was already running towards the sea.

Hugh and Dot soon separated themselves a little, with the sorts of shy smiles only young, newly-married, couples give each other. Jack had a momentary memory of similar smiles with Rosie, and then Miss Fisher was in among them and demanding demonstrations of swimming which resulted in raucous laughter and much splashing – though thankfully without ruining the ladies hair.

Alleyn’s fastidiousness was only apparent after he finished an activity, a truism that had amused Troy no end when she first saw the switch from whole-hearted enjoyment and revelling in action to precise swipes of a damp towel and a light moue of distaste. She chuckled again that late afternoon, watching as her elegant man came dripping saltwater up the beach, hair in disarray, white spots appearing as he dried, only to disappear with alacrity into a bathing shed and reappear some time later looking ready for a leisurely afternoon in mixed company. Phryne chuckled too, but she did it secretly with Jack, and was vaguely distracted the while by his brazen use of new bathers. Once they were all attired again, she herded them back to Wardlow. The Collinses disappeared next door to change properly, and the others were provided with spare rooms and hot water. Mr Butler greeted them with cocktails, and when Troy came down it was too see Hugh and Dot standing at the window, and Jack and Alleyn by the fireplace thumbing through the evening newspaper.

“I wasn’t in when we had our strike, and now we haven’t a union.” Alleyn was saying, “I knew yours was bad but I didn’t realise exactly how bad.” Troy took her drink and drifted to the art on the walls, slowly moving towards the younger couple instead. Dot pounced on her, clearly trying to put her at ease. This was achieved abruptly for all three when Troy asked about suitable toys for Alleyn’s godson, and Hugh admitted to a knowledge of toy cars.

Dinner was a lively affair. Alleyn delighted Miss Fisher by noticing the tie and correctly guessing Jack had bought it in London. Miss Fisher delighted Alleyn by pretending to believe his claims of Holmesian deduction. They talked silk and tailoring with a knowledge which surprised nobody. Jack took Alleyn up on his offer and described some of the places he had seen on short leave. Hugh listened open-mouthed, unused to Inspector Robinson talking quite so freely. Troy, enchanted, eagerly joined in as soon as Jack was expounding on Salisbury. “It’s the most disconcerting thing.” He said, “For a chap from Australia, anyway, going off and looking at something that looks exactly like the coloured version of your history book.” In an aside to Hugh, as though concerned about his education, he said, “I guess they still have them. The ones about England – those drawings are all by Constable. Stepping into Salisbury was like stepping into one of his paintings.”  
“I know exactly what you mean.” Troy breathed, nodding eagerly. “It’s like he’s just stood up from his easel and you’ve walked in. Remarkable.”

Out of deference to the party atmosphere, Alleyn didn’t ask Jack then why he was so sure Blue hadn’t done it (later, he learnt Blue had been the first of them to forgive their captors for their treatment), what had convinced him to work despite the death penalty (the surety discovered with Dennis Gunn was a great help for both), when he had gone into a home (it was some time before they were close enough for that – it had shaped other views as well which Alleyn (mostly) practiced himself), or where his unit tattoo was. Instead, they told their funniest stories, shifting to the parlour again to enjoy further cocktails and desserts.

“Has Inspector Robinson saved your life yet, Hugh?” Troy inquired, re-setting her hair as she leant forward and it threatened to escape.  
“No Ma’am. Umm. Inspector Alleyn has Sir?”  
“Troy” Alleyn murmured, “Don’t show off.”  
“I should have thought you’d told him already.” Troy dimpled. “Go on, Rory.”  
“Please Sir.” Hugh sat enthralled next to his wife, smiling eagerly.  
“There’s nothing much to tell. My colleague, Detective Inspector Fox, was poisoned when we were on a case. I happened to be there in time to call the doctor.”  
“Rory don’t be an ass. That’s not at all how it goes. Honestly.” With much drama and an admirable grasp of the facts, Troy regaled them with the story. Even Phryne listened spell-bound, though she was the first to break the tension with a teasing question as to whether Jack would be doing the same.

That night, Jack lingered for a further nightcap.  
“I feel like I haven’t seen you like this for weeks, Jack.”  
“You’ve been busy, Miss Fisher.”  
Phryne shrugged an elegant shoulder, fluttering her eyelashes. “The thing I like about you, Jack, is you don’t need me to run around after you. I know you’ll give me space like I give you space.”  
“Let Rome in Tiber melt, and the wide arch of the ranged empire fall; here is my space.” Jack held her gaze, lowering his glass invitingly.  
“That’s more than enough space for two.” She breathed, stepping forward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Parwill was the name used for Vegemite between 1928 and 1935 (as in 'Marmite but Parwill' - shockingly this did not greatly increase sales!).
> 
> Hubert 'Oppy' Opperman was Australia's leading professional cyclist at the time; he was based in Victoria.
> 
> [Dennis Gunn](https://www.police.govt.nz/about-us/history-and-museum/museum/exhibitions/curators-casefile/fingerprinting-and-%E2%80%9Cgotcha%E2%80%9D-badges) was the first person recorded in western history as hanged primarily on fingerprint evidence - although it happened in NZ it involved a prominent Australian policeman and received a lot of police press [interest internationally](http://nzetc.victoria.ac.nz/tm/scholarly/tei-Gov08_05Rail-t1-body-d14.html).
> 
> I find it fascinating the Jack seems to be so pro-suffrage, pro-choice, and Alleyn is of course the same; I decided that their Mothers were their motivations, but obviously for different reasons and in very different circumstances.  
> The little face Jack makes in S2E10 - Death on the Vine - made me think he has overcome his own temptation to blame an entire nation for their leader's poor decisions (honestly that could be any country in WW1 but we'll keep things simple), hence that particular motif. 
> 
> This has been so much fun, and kept me pleasantly occupied this week as well. Thanks for all the support lovely fandom(s)! Hopefully you have enjoyed it too, wonderful reader.


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